


Beyond Bordeaux

by August_Wright



Series: Beyond [3]
Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Angst, M/M, Post-Horsemen, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-03
Updated: 2010-05-03
Packaged: 2017-10-09 07:07:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/84364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/August_Wright/pseuds/August_Wright
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>The rights to Highlander belong to those clever people who write for TV and movies at Davis Panzer Productions.</p><p>I owe huge thanks to Killashandra for betaing this when it was young. I also owe her an apology for going ahead with an interpretation she disliked so much. FWIW, it's not my favorite, either, but I thought it was appropriate for this story. Thanks for your help and support.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Beyond Bordeaux

**Author's Note:**

> The rights to Highlander belong to those clever people who write for TV and movies at Davis Panzer Productions.
> 
> I owe huge thanks to Killashandra for betaing this when it was young. I also owe her an apology for going ahead with an interpretation she disliked so much. FWIW, it's not my favorite, either, but I thought it was appropriate for this story. Thanks for your help and support.

Duncan came to himself behind the wheel of the rental car on a mountain road. The car was the one he and Cassandra had rented in Bordeaux, but Duncan had only vague memories of what had brought him to be on a winding road without Cassandra, and, apparently, without any luggage. Dismayed, he pulled into a turn out to get himself oriented.

 

He stared in surprise at the road map of France open on the seat beside him. Had he truly blacked out? No, he had been driving -- it was more like returning from a daydream. But his memories were very muggy, like the day after drinking too much. What did he remember?

 

Kronos's quickening, he remembered that. Power slicing through him, butchering him with its force. He winced away from the memory; the intensity was still painful. Why was he on this highway, and where was Cassandra? Where was Methos?! With the thought of Methos came a strange panic -- a flash of pure fear. Methos wasn't... no, he remembered calling to Cassandra to let him live. Methos was alive; Duncan was sure of that. But where was he? He remembered so little after Cassandra left the sub base. Irritated at himself, he told himself he didn't care what had become of Methos.

 

He rifled distractedly through his collection of papers, and found a computer printout from a rental car agency for a car rented to Cassandra. He checked the date against the date on his watch. He was relieved to see that he had only "lost" a day; more like twelve hours.

 

On the computer printout, someone had circled Cassandra's reported destination, Toulouse, and Duncan guessed by how the map was folded that he was himself on the way there. Why had Cassandra taken a separate car? Did she have their bags? If only he could remember!

 

His memories were there, he felt sure, but they seemed to be obscured by a storm of emotions -- rage and grief. And something else spiced the mix. Duncan knew himself well enough to face his feelings squarely -- the other feeling in the mix was lust.

 

Lust. That meant the chaotic storm was quickening-related, he mused, which was not surprising. Kronos's quickening still burned in his muscles. Caspian's, taken a few hours before Kronos's, had felt equally ancient and foul, though not as powerful. Caspian's alone would have been sufficient to give Duncan a headache for a couple of days.

 

Still, he was disturbed by the vagueness of his memory, which was usually so sharp. What had he been doing? He had a feeling he was following Cassandra, but he wasn't sure why.

 

His searching fingers found a third paper on the seat next to him -- a note in Cassandra's hand.

 

 

 

Duncan,

 

You've made your choice and I've made mine. I owe you thanks for ridding us all of this nightmare, but I can't give it to you now. I've left to recover and consider.

 

Yours still,

 

C

 

Duncan stared at it, an uneasy feeling growing in his stomach. She had left and he had followed.

 

He pulled out onto the highway and continued into the foothills of the Pyrenees, not certain what else to do.

 

Behind him he saw another car on the highway.

 

He drove deeper into the forest, looking for a car matching the printout's description of Cassandra's car. Twice he slowed to let the car behind him catch him up and pass, but both times it lingered, remaining a good quarter mile behind him.

 

Dark clouds bunched overhead as the road wound up into the mountains. Traffic thinned out as Duncan left the populated areas and he no longer caught glimpses of the following car. Soon his winding road penetrated the wild regions inhabited only by deer, backpackers, and the occasional Basque villager.

 

"Recover and consider," Cassandra's note had said. There, crowded close by birch and pine, Duncan realized that Toulouse might be where she'd promised to return her car, but it was not her destination.

 

Just as that thought struck him, he spotted the faintest glimpse of solid white off the road a ways, in the trees. In some arcane way, he found himself certain that that was the white car described on the rental agency's printout. He slowed and pulled onto what passed for a shoulder on this narrow mountain road.

 

A few deep breaths of alpine forest air went a long way toward dispelling his feeling of disorientation. The crisp temperature and fresh scents brought a hundred pleasant memories rushing in. He planted his feet in the earth and looked up at the sky.

 

He'd crossed these mountains before, he remembered -- twice as a soldier. The roads and shops made by man had changed, but the trees and sky were reassuringly familiar.

 

He hiked into the trees, the shape of the white car becoming clearer. He was uneasily reminded of tracking the white wolf as a boy. Once again he entered the domain of a witch, whatever that meant these days.

 

A glance at the license confirmed that this was her rental car. He scanned the vicinity of the car for trailsign, and spotted her tracks easily; she'd made no attempt to hide them. He followed her further into the woods.

 

He sensed an immortal, and looked around, all senses alert, waiting. Finally, a figure stepped into view a ways ahead of him.

 

Cassandra wore her beautiful hair down, cascading around her shoulders. Her clothing was practical backwoods woolens but still reminiscent of flowing priestess garb. Her eyes glowed green and her sword glinted silver-white. Duncan had never seen her look so desirable, and he was again a thirteen-year-old boy. A hormone-driven thirteen-year-old boy.

 

His blood raced with desire tinged by fear, and he fought twin impulses -- one to draw his own sword, and the other to rush forward to embrace her. Embrace her and...

 

Sudden dark visions crashed over him -- blood and lust and rape. He breathed quickly and managed to dispel the horrid images, but they left him shaken.

 

"Duncan," she said, and the sound of his name on her lips made his knees weak. "What are you doing here?"

 

What was he doing there? Good question.

 

"I have to be sure you are all right."

 

Even the expression of annoyance that flashed across her face, made him desire her.

 

She put away her sword in a graceful, practiced motion. "I wrote you a note. That was my good-bye."

 

In the distance, Duncan heard voices -- high-pitched and unhappy. They were not alone in these woods.

 

"Cassandra," he moved toward her. "Stay with me."

 

"As I said, Duncan, you made your choice. I chose to allow it, and now I have to come to terms with my own choice. I don't want you here."

 

That was clear enough. Duncan fully understood. How could he have read her note and not respected that she would want to be alone? He couldn't fathom it. Why was he behaving like this?

 

The distant voices grew nearer, but changed to whispers and whimpers. Someone was hushing the others. They sounded like children, and their progress through the brush was noisy, even with their voices lowered.

 

Another wave of anger and lust washed over Duncan, bringing a fragment of memory with it. Finding Cassandra's note on the bed in the Bordeaux hotel, and, in a towering rage at her abandonment of him, bullying a rental car agent who wouldn't tell him what he wanted to know. He had pushed the man away from his terminal and had hijacked the computer's information before the man returned with security.

 

Appalled, Duncan considered that he might be the one who was not all right. He might need *her* help.

 

"Cassandra," he started, but he broke off as yet another immortal presence intruded into their world.

 

"What is this?" demanded Cassandra.

 

They both looked around warily, but Duncan primarily looked behind him, toward the highway and the sounds of voices.

 

"Uh guys?" came a familiar voice from that direction. "We have a problem."

 

"Methos?" cried Cassandra. "You brought *him* with you? I should have known." She turned away.

 

"Wait," Duncan called. "I didn't . . ."

 

Methos appeared, and Duncan paused in surprise at the sight. With Methos were children, many of them crying, all of them looking frightened, and all but two of them black- or brown-skinned. Closest to Methos stood a young black girl, about twelve, with a long dark braid down her back. She stood slim and earnest, like a young tree, and in her arms she held a much younger child, tear-streaked and clinging to her neck. Grouped around them were other young, frightened faces. One small girl clung to Methos' hand.

 

Duncan stared.

 

Cassandra turned back and stared.

 

Methos looked at the tall girl who held the child.

 

"There are some men," she gulped. "They killed our counselor. Help us, please."

 

"Killed your counselor?" Duncan echoed. He had a hundred questions for Methos, but they all fled his mind.

 

"What have you done?" Cassandra demanded of Methos, moving past Duncan and wading into the cluster of children, arms out to touch and hug. Some of the children moved in to her warmth, but others stood apart, still panting, their faces slack, their eyes wide. Methos faded back; the child holding his hand stayed with him.

 

"What's your name?" Duncan asked the older girl, gently.

 

"Genevieve. Help us, please. We have to get away." The broken sobbing from the other children testified to the seriousness of her claim.

 

Duncan exchanged glances with Cassandra.

 

"Go on, little one," Cassandra said. "What happened?"

 

"Some men came in when we were eating. They stabbed Daniel with a big knife and then they grabbed Jean!" She gestured at one of the boys. "Madame Pinnsoneault tried to stop them. She got Jean away and she yelled to me to take the others and run to the road. But I think they hurt her, too."

 

"When, Genevieve?" Cassandra asked.

 

"Just now!" the girl cried. "Up there, on the mountain. They may be following us!"

 

"How many men?" Duncan asked.

 

"Four!"

 

"No, five!"

 

"No, four!"

 

Many of the children now joined in Genevieve's tale. From the babble, Duncan gathered that these dozen children were campers at a nearby children's camp. The older children and most of the counselors had left for a three-day rafting trip, leaving the youngest behind with two counselors and Genevieve, whose mother had refused to authorize her to take the river excursion. Why most of them were of African descent was not clear to Duncan, but he guessed they were children of Algerian or Moroccan immigrants, and the camp might be a church camp.

 

"Cassandra, get the children to your car," Duncan said. He looked at Methos, holding the hand of a little girl. "You . . ."

 

"I'm coming with you, MacLeod," Methos said hastily, with a glance at Cassandra.

 

Duncan considered. He neither wanted to leave Cassandra to protect the children alone, nor did he care to leave the two of them together. But he had to go and check the girl's story. There might be others in danger.

 

"Take him," Cassandra said, acid in her tone. "We'll go to the road. They won't all fit in my car."

 

"Take me with you, too," begged the little girl with Methos.

 

Methos firmly disengaged her, and pointed her toward Cassandra.

 

"He's going back there," Cassandra said to her, holding out a hand. "You don't want to go."

 

Her pretty face puckered in misery, the girl said nothing as Methos joined Duncan.

 

Duncan frowned at Methos, his hundred angry questions re-forming in his mind. Methos looked back, impassive, and Duncan had no choice but to face the direction of the mountain slope Genevieve had indicated, and set off. The clouds, which had been threatening rain for hours, began to drizzle.

 

Duncan moved swiftly through the brush, backtracking the children. He was hyperaware of Methos to his right and a few paces behind, also moving sure-footedly through the forest. Duncan tried to keep an eye on him.

 

He knew he shouldn't risk speaking, but the now-steady rain masked most low sounds. Speaking quietly, he asked, "What are you doing here?"

 

"It's a free country," came the response.

 

"That's not an answer."

 

"It's all you're getting."

 

Duncan tightened his jaw and quickened his pace.

 

He slowed as he approached a cleared area and, cautiously, he looked out upon a dirt road, now swiftly becoming mud. The camp would have to have access to the paved road, somehow, so this track was a likely guide. Staying well off of the track, but paralleling it, Duncan continued uphill. Silent, Methos mirrored him. Eventually the road widened, and a wooden sign welcomed them to *Maison de Foret.*

 

Methos faded off to Duncan's left, and Duncan moved to where he could see the camp buildings through the haze of rain. He saw five wooden cabins built chalet-style, with steeply slanting roofs, and bright paint. One cabin was much larger than the others -- clearly the main lodge.

 

He saw no movement. While the hour was early for lights or fires, the rain darkened the surrounding woods and he would have expected to see some glow from within.

 

His Lakota tribesmen would have had him study the camp for hours, days even, but Duncan didn't have that kind of time. Choosing his route carefully, he slipped from cover to cover, approaching the main lodge. He positioned himself below a window and stilled, listening. Rain ran down his face, but he barely noticed.

 

A slight, incongruous movement on the edge of the forest caught his attention, and Methos flashed him a brief wave from a hiding place in the brush. Perfect. Without any instruction, Methos had taken the Watch position -- in place to warn of approach during the time Duncan had to be relatively exposed beneath the window. Perhaps Methos had some Lakota in him. Or, he thought more darkly, who knew what tactics the man had used with Kronos and the Horsemen. He reminded himself sternly to break the habit of assuming Methos was on his side. God only knew what the man's agenda was.

 

He heard nothing. He smelled no smoke; he felt no movement in the ground.

 

Duncan risked a glance through the window. All was dark and motionless.

 

He gave Methos a hand signal, which he hoped the other man could understand -- "it looks okay -- I'm going in." He slid around the side of the building, to the door and, ready for anything, he entered.

 

The large lodge room was dim and damp, the fireplace on the left-hand wall cold, the food on the long rows of tables only partially eaten, as Genevieve had described. Directly opposite Duncan, on the far side of the room, was another door to the outside which opened onto the forest where Methos lurked, and to Duncan's right was a bank of good-sized windows facing south. On the floor before the fireplace lay a human form, something dark pooled around it. Duncan smelled blood.

 

Silent as a cat, Duncan moved to the form, keeping his feelings detached. It was a woman; youngish, heavy-set, and auburn-haired. Her throat had been cut, so her skin was pale and bluish in the rain-filtered light. Blood soaked the wood floor, and oozed downhill, inching toward the long dinner tables. Looking up, Duncan saw the body of a young man, slumped in the shadows near the far door. Daniel, no doubt.

 

The swinging door beside the fireplace probably led to a kitchen, he guessed. Staying bent low, Duncan checked the man - stabbed through the heart - and then rolled through the swinging door, hitting it open with a heel.

 

The kitchen was the place of death for two more people - women - both black and wearing full length aprons. The blood-covered white aprons looked like shrouds. The flame was still lit on two gas burners, and Duncan automatically turned them off, then wiped his fingerprints with his shirt.

 

Duncan returned to the side door, opened it cautiously and gestured at the brush beyond. Methos rose from the greenery, looked side to side, then joined Duncan in the lodge. He took in the two bodies in the main room, and then his gaze locked on the wall above the bank of windows. Duncan turned to look.

 

Painted in large red letters over the windows was the word "Ratonnade." Rat hunt. The term for the Neo-Fascist murders of France's African population fifteen years previously.

 

Fury and contempt ignited in Duncan. "Amateurs," he spat.

 

"Amateurs?" Methos queried.

 

"They had to use paint."

 

Methos gave him a very odd look and said, "Blood is kind of hard to paint with."

 

"I guess you would know," Duncan said. He turned to the corner near the door he had entered. He had seen a pile of wool blankets there, and he began stuffing them in a tarpaulin bag. If the kids had not all been able to shelter in a car, the blankets would be needed. He glanced at Methos, who knelt beside the slain man.

 

"The counselors they killed were 'pure.'" Methos mused.

 

"Yeah, well the kids aren't and neither were the kitchen staff," Duncan replied, irritated to hear Methos use the neo-Fascist term for whites. "C'mon, we've got to get back to the kids." Duncan shoved the bag of blankets at the other man, and headed out the door, furious that the rain would hide the killers' tracks. Anger at everything seemed to define him. Anger at Methos, anger at the killers, anger at the rain, anger at Cassandra. He shook his head to clear it, as they strode into the trees. The only anger that would be useful to him was anger towards the killers. He tried to focus on that. "It's ridiculous to talk of racial purity for the French," he complained. "As many times as the region has been invaded and overrun ..."

 

"I've always thought it was ridiculous to talk of racial purity for anyone," Methos answered quietly.

 

Duncan had no response for that. It reminded him of what seemed the distant past, the time before Kronos appeared in Seacouver, when his opinions of Methos had always been tinged with awe at the man's immense age and perspective. For just a moment, that awe grew in him again. And collided head on with his feelings of betrayal and hurt. He sped up so that neither of them had breath to speak. The rain increased to a downpour.

 

As they approached Cassandra's car, Duncan planned. Assuming Methos had a car around somewhere, the children could fit in all three cars, and they would drive them to the nearest town.

 

Then he would return, hunt down the killers, and kill them all. Slowly, in some very entertaining way. Yes.

 

They entered the small clearing where Cassandra had put her car, and no one was there. Duncan felt no new immortal in the vicinity, either. Through the curtain of rain, Duncan saw an ominous sight. Cassandra's tires had been slashed.

 

He swore and looked at Methos.

 

Eyes wide in alarm, Methos raised his voice over the thudding tympani of rain on leaves, "She said she'd go to the road. What about your car?"

 

"C'mon." Duncan raced downhill, not caring if he slipped, the curtain of rain making the terrain look more gray than he remembered. He burst from the forest slightly uphill of his car. One glance at its extreme list told Duncan his car had been hit too. But where were Cassandra and the kids?

 

"Where's your car?" he asked, fighting panic. "You were following me."

 

"It's around the bend. Maybe they didn't see it." Methos took off down the road, and Duncan followed.

 

Methos had made some perfunctory attempt to use shrubbery to disguise the car, but it, too, had had its tires slashed.

 

They stood in silence, rain pouring down, staring at the disabled vehicle. A car rumbled by in low gear. Duncan realized it was the first car he'd heard.

 

"Could they have gotten a ride?" he asked.

 

"With twelve kids?" Methos replied. "There's almost no traffic here, and these assholes were close. What would she do?"

 

"You think the tires were already slashed when she got there?"

 

Methos nodded, causing drops of water to flick from the end of his nose. "Otherwise, we'd see bodies. I'm sure these guys want to kill those kids. Besides the racism, they can identify them."

 

What would she do? Cassandra probably knew the region, since she'd retreated here. Duncan looked around at the looming trees and towering crags beyond, now shadows in the rain. He found himself thinking of the magic powers his child self had believed the Witch of Donan Woods possessed. She could turn into a white wolf, could make her home invisible, and had prophetic dreams. The Voice had turned out to be real, but she'd never really told Duncan if his memories of her other powers were accurate.

 

His roving gaze locked on the rocky pass between two high and nearly inaccessible peaks. Beyond them, his sense of direction and his memory of the map told him, would be a fairly major highway and the Pique river, a popular recreation waterway.

 

"She'd take them through the most difficult terrain, because that's what they wouldn't expect. There." He pointed.

 

Methos looked, then sank onto the muddy shoulder, his arms resting on his bony knees. "Ah, shit," he exclaimed.

 

"What's the matter with you?" Duncan asked, impatient to get going. Those children were in real danger!

 

"I'm tired, that's what!" Methos yelled at him like a cranky child. "I was hoping for a steak, a good fuck, and a warm bed, and now we have to go all Sound of Music. Damn it."

 

Furious again, Duncan seized the bag of blankets. What a self-centered bastard! "Then stay here! Who says we need you? Stop the next car and go for help." He strode away. Actually, a calmer voice in his head said to him, that was a good idea.

 

Behind him, Duncan heard the man get to his feet. "No can do," he said, coming up alongside Duncan.

 

"Yes, you can! Stay here and go for help with the next car." Duncan began to jog, and looked in vain along the highway for a car. A good fuck, indeed!

 

"You are not going back to those kids without me." Methos jogged right with him.

 

"Why the hell not? I don't want you. Haven't I made that clear? We're through!"

 

"Yeah, I got that," Methos snapped. "But what you want means nothing. I'm staying with you."

 

Duncan stopped. "Why?!"

 

"If you don't know, this is not the time to explain. Let's find Cassandra."

 

Duncan punched him in the jaw. "Explain this!" he roared.

 

The jaw made a cracking sound and Methos tumbled into the ditch beside the road. Duncan *really* wanted to stay and beat the tar out of the man, but the plight of the children was more urgent. He left Methos and headed for the mountain uplands.

 

Behind him he heard running feet.

 

He ducked into the forest.

 

Methos crashed into the forest, full-tilt, and caught him from behind. Methos' fist pounded viciously into Duncan's kidney.

 

Duncan grunted and spun in what should have been a capture to Methos' head, but the dense brush got in the way, and Duncan only managed a punch to the other man's ribs.

 

Methos caught his wrist and twisted, forcing Duncan's face down into some brush, and drawing him forward to where he stumbled into a cluster of springy young birch. The springiness gave Duncan the idea for his next move. Anticipating that Methos would now knee him in the face, Duncan sprang off the natural trampoline, and pivoted around his own arm. It was an impressive move he had learned from Connor, but it worked better when he had somewhere stable to land and where his flying feet didn't get caught in pine boughs. He fell backward, Methos' grip on his wrist pulling the man on top of Duncan, and stabbing a lance of pain through the wrist. This was ridiculous!

 

Blinded by branches in his face, Methos squirmed on top of him.

 

*A good fuck . . .*

 

Suddenly Duncan was thoroughly, breathlessly aroused.

 

Methos' fist connecting with his jaw was a painful distraction, but, oddly, it did nothing to dispel the arousal. In fact it got worse. Duncan needed... so badly. Had he become some kind of masochist?

 

The pain in his jaw screamed at him that it was broken, and Duncan really didn't care. He reached around the body on top of him and hugged it to him crushingly. Methos' arms were caught at a painful angle, and his violent options were momentarily limited. Duncan crushed the sodden form in his arms against his desperate groin, the pressure something of a relief.

 

Finding sudden strength, Methos hurled Duncan from him, tumbling him against a tree. Methos was on his feet, his face unrecognizable in fury, and, positioning himself just right, he kicked Duncan squarely in the groin.

 

Pain exploded everywhere in Duncan's body, even blinding him. Instinctively, he rolled to the side to dodge a follow-up blow, but it didn't come. He didn't hear his opponent moving, so he took a moment to recover before prying open his eyes.

 

Methos stood before him, holding a dueling dagger at the ready. The dense trees intercepted enough of the rain that Duncan could see him fairly clearly.

 

Even as the pain in his groin lessened, the rage he'd felt drained away. He saw some things he had not noticed before. Methos wore the same jeans and sweatshirt Duncan had last seen on him in the submarine base, and his clothes were discolored with huge dark stains.

 

He also noticed the dagger, with its implicit threat to escalate the fight. "No swords," he croaked, his throat still constricted from the clenching his whole body had responded with.

 

"Your call," Methos replied. The dagger vanished, and Methos turned and strode off, heading away from the highway, toward the craggy uplands.

 

Duncan got slowly to his feet, found the bag of blankets, and followed.

 

They traveled in silence, Duncan wrestling with anger. His immortal physiology healed quickly from the blow to his gonads, but he had to endure the painful setting and snapping of his broken jaw. He watched carefully for signs of the passage of a lot of children, or, better yet, a few men, but the pouring rain obscured any real hope of tracking anyone. At least that meant the killers wouldn't be able to easily follow the children.

 

Eventually, Duncan passed Methos and led the way into the steeply sloping terrain. He remained confident that Cassandra had come this way, and his hope was that their hunters would waste valuable time searching the road. He winced to think of the length of time he and Methos had spent visible on that road. His thinking was just not as clear as it should be. And he was the one who had started that time-wasting brawl.

 

He considered the other man slipping agilely through the brush behind him. He had questions burning within him. Why had Methos left Seacouver with Kronos? Why had he ever joined up with him in the first place? Why didn't he just tell Duncan an old enemy was in town? *Was* Kronos Methos' enemy? Why wouldn't Methos come away with him when they met at Elysium Church? Did he intend to distract Duncan so the others could capture Cassandra? Did he challenge Silas because he *judged* that Duncan would be the victor over Kronos, or because he *hoped* he would?

 

Also, why was Methos following him on the road, why hadn't Methos changed clothes, when apparently both Duncan and Cassandra had had time to, and why were his clothes so blood-stained? Duncan didn't recall any major wounds on Methos at the culmination of his battle with Silas, although ... his memory at that point was already fuzzy and sort of painful. That quickening ... Duncan shook his head and shrugged away from the memory. There was something there. Something with a big "Warning" sign on the door, and Duncan couldn't spare the attention to go fishing around in his own befuddled head.

 

He and Methos were both breathing heavily, now, as their hike became an ascent. Granite cliffs grew closer on either side of them. They couldn't be far. Those children surely couldn't travel very fast. Worry wormed into Duncan's thoughts. Could he have been mistaken that they had come this way?

 

At that precise moment, he felt a new immortal presence. For once he was glad that his own immortal signature announced his approach; otherwise Cassandra might attack first and ask questions later. He slowed automatically, Methos matching him. Calling out didn't seem like a good idea, but he could see so little through the trees.

 

"Here," Methos said, indicating a large outcrop of bare rock slightly above them and well clear of surrounding trees. Duncan scrambled atop it, slipping twice on its slick side. The second time Methos propped him behind the knees until Duncan found his purchase.

 

Clear of trees, and gifted by a momentary shaft of sunlight through the clouds, Duncan scanned the area of the pass, and spotted movement up in the saddle between the peaks.

 

"Okay, I see them," he said, sliding back down. "It looks like they've found a sheep trail." He faced Methos then, looking at him for the first time since their fisticuffs. Methos was completely soaked, as Duncan was, and his face looked positively haggard.

 

"They're making good time," Methos said.

 

"You look like hell," Duncan said. Then he was irritated at himself for worrying about a mass murderer. It took no effort at all to remember the slain settlers Melvin Koren had left in his wake. Which made him think of the slain counselors.

 

Judging by his expression, the comment only angered Methos. Methos scooped up the bag of blankets and shoved them at Duncan.

 

Shrugging, Duncan set off again. Maybe Methos hadn't slept. Did *I* get any sleep? he wondered. Was it really only last night that they'd all battled in Bordeaux?

 

In a few minutes more, they reached Cassandra. The children, soaked and exhausted, were strung out along a path that made switchbacks up to the crest of the saddle. Duncan scanned them for signs of shivering, but the exertion seemed to be keeping them warm. Her auburn tresses plastered to her skull, Cassandra looked much less otherworldly than she had earlier.

 

"Not him," she said, glaring at Methos, millennia of loathing in each word.

 

"We need all the help we can get," Duncan replied.

 

A little girl left the path and slid her way to Methos, who had to catch her to prevent her from slipping farther down the steep slope.

 

"Not him," Cassandra repeated.

 

"What's your name?" the little girl asked. Duncan thought it was the same little girl who had clung to Methos' hand, earlier.

 

"Adam. What's yours?" Methos replied.

 

"Sarah." She took his hand. "I'm tired."

 

"Cassandra," Duncan continued wearily, "he won't go back and I can't make him. He can bring up the rear. Do you know the way?"

 

"You watch him," Cassandra replied, clearly not happy with the arrangement. She turned away and continued up the trail, passing by some of the children. "This is Duncan MacLeod," she announced, gesturing back at him. "He'll help us all get home."

 

So they continued, Cassandra in the lead and Methos and Sarah bringing up the rear. Weariness had driven the horror of their earlier experience out of the minds of some of the younger children, and they needed constant help and encouragement as the group inched over the crest of the pass.

 

At the top, a blast of cold air hit so suddenly and so hard that Duncan decided to stay there, a hand out to every child so no one was blown from the mountain. Once everyone was safely over, he moved ahead, to the middle of the pack.

 

He learned some of the children's names: Andre, Pierre, Jean. He learned they were all from the banlieues in Lyon, and the camp was run by a charity for underprivileged children.

 

The trail on the back side of the pass grew treacherous. It cut its way along a cliff face, probably sure footing for goats, but increasingly dangerous in the rain. Duncan had just crossed a muddy three-foot portion of ledge trail when the children behind him cried out. He turned to see that section of the trail crumble and wash away down the cliff, before the two boys behind him, who stopped and huddled, wide-eyed.

 

Cassandra came back at the shout and she and Duncan deliberated. At Duncan's suggestion, she pressed on ahead and positioned herself where the cliff face tapered onto firmer, more horizontal earth. Duncan heard her encouraging the children with her, the ones who had been at the head of the line, to jump the final step into her waiting arms.

 

Duncan considered the gap in their ledge trail with concern. Besides the crumbling caused by the sheets of rain, streams of water now cascaded down the cliff and tumbled through the gap, widening it by rock-sized chunks every minute or so. If he didn't get the remaining children across soon, the gap would grow too large to cross. The edges were already treacherous.

 

"Where's Adam?" he called to the two boys waiting nervously beyond the gap. "Get him up here for me." Pierre, to the rear of Andre, moved back around the curve and was lost to Duncan's view. Two more children inched up behind Andre, and viewed the gap with alarm.

 

"Andre, can you step across? I'll grab you on this side." Duncan tried to sound encouraging.

 

Andre nodded, biting his lower lip. He stretched his leg across and held one hand out. The other he placed on the muddy wall in a vain search for purchase. Trusting, he stepped out, the one hand reaching to Duncan, but as Duncan leaned out, the trail beneath Andre's feet crumbled, and Duncan had to yank the boy's arm to where he could catch him across his back. Andre scrabbled to safety on Duncan's side and looked at Duncan with wide eyes.

 

Duncan gave the boy a squeeze. "Go down to Cassandra," he said. "Go slow. It'll be all right."

 

The next child, Jean, shrank back from the new edge and looked at Duncan in panic. "It's all right," Duncan said. Where the Devil was Methos? It wouldn't remain all right for long.

 

Methos appeared, sliding around the trail along the outside of the gathering children. He reached the front of the line, peered at the washed away portion of ledge, squinted up the cliff at the sheets of water, and looked at Duncan. "I hate it when this happens," he said.

 

"Try and make yourself useful," Duncan retorted. "You hand the kids across to me before this gets much worse."

 

Methos nodded, and put his hand on Jean's shoulder.

 

"No!" the boy cried, and cowered against the cliff wall.

 

"Jean, I'll catch you. It'll be all right," Duncan said.

 

Jean shook his head. "No!"

 

Pierre moved to stand beside Jean. "I'll go first," he volunteered.

 

"Good lad," Duncan replied.

 

Methos leaned out and submerged one hand against the cliff face, water streaming over his wrist. Duncan also leaned out, bracing himself, and Pierre stepped out into nothing, but supported himself for a critical instant on Methos' forearm before Duncan snatched him the remaining distance to the path. He sent the boy on to Cassandra, with an approving slap on the back.

 

Duncan decided not to press Jean. There were other children less unwilling, and time was short.

 

Methos also said nothing to Jean, but sent two more children across to Duncan as Jean watched.

 

The gap widened to where the smallest children couldn't manage the step-and-snatch, so Methos scooped them under their arms and half-swung them across to Duncan as fast as possible. Soon no one would be able to stand on that portion of ledge. If only the rain would stop!

 

Methos reached for Sarah, the last of the children, when Jean stood forth. "I'll go now," Jean announced.

 

Duncan exchanged one glance with Methos. The distance between them gaped wider than ever, and Jean was not one of the smaller children. No help for it, so Methos lifted the boy and leaned toward Duncan. Duncan stretched to his limit, because Jean froze, refusing to allow any momentum to help him over. Duncan plastered his face and chest into the muddy, streaming cliff, in order to reach his own hand across the boy's back.

 

Jean struggled and clung to Methos' shoulder like a drowning man to a rope.

 

"Jean, no!" both immortals cried, as their purchase slipped from under both of them. Jean shrieked as they all scrabbled in the sliding mud for firm footing or handholds. With an immense effort, Duncan reached the boy and wrenched him loose from his slippery hold on the sliding Methos. Fighting the streaming mud like it was a treadmill, he somehow hauled himself and Jean to the tiny dirt path.

 

Panting, he looked for Methos. Relieved of the boy, Duncan saw, Methos had also managed to climb against the crumbling earth back to his portion of the vanishing path. They were all covered in mud, the rain washing it into their eyes.

 

Movement below caught Duncan's attention, and he saw that Jean's cries had brought Cassandra and the other children down from the trail's end and around to the cliff face twenty feet below them. Their faces appeared through the curtain of rain as they looked up.

 

"Jean," Duncan panted, "just wait here. We'll get Sarah and all go together."

 

One child to go. Sarah, the little girl who had taken such a shine to "Adam."

 

Methos climbed to his feet, and lifted the trusting child as he had the others. Duncan nodded his readiness, and Methos swung her slight weight out.

 

And dropped her.

 

Duncan moved with all the speed of four hundred years of honed reflexes, but there was nothing he could do.

 

She made no cry as she fell, and Duncan's world froze in nauseating horror. How often in his life had he wanted to turn back time? Just a few seconds - just long enough to make one different choice ...

 

The brush shielded her final resting place from his view, but he heard the horrible thump of her landing body.

 

With an incautious haste propelled by pure will, Duncan barreled down the path, leaped off the cliff at the earliest possible point, and dashed to the cliff bottom. As he approached the group of children, a child's wail rose, echoing up the cliff. That was Sarah's cry, wasn't it? He prayed it was.

 

The knot of children parted to allow him in. He slid to a stop where Cassandra kneeled beside a crumpled form. The girl's eyes were closed, but the cry was hers. She wailed her pain and horror with a healthy pair of lungs.

 

Duncan met Cassandra's horrified gaze for one moment, and then saw her eyes widen at something behind him. He heard the pounding of approaching feet, and watched Cassandra's face become a mask of fury.

 

"Sarah," Methos cried from behind him.

 

Cassandra flew through the children to confront him, a she-wolf protecting her young.

 

"Stay away from her, you bastard!"

 

Duncan couldn't leave the girl. The two ancient immortals would just have to settle this without him.

 

"Sarah, honey, can you tell me where it hurts?"

 

Sarah opened her eyes and looked up at the cliff. She continued wailing, but moved slightly to indicate pain. Duncan had spent years as a battlefield surgeon, and her motions made him suspect her right arm. He inspected her carefully for other obvious injuries. Bruises and scratches covered her, but nothing appeared to have pierced her anywhere. Miraculously, neither her neck nor back seemed to be broken. Either could easily have snapped, killing or paralyzing her.

 

"Sarah!" came another anguished cry from Methos.

 

Duncan spared one glance for the confrontation, hoping swords weren't involved. No such luck. Cassandra had produced a foot-long hunting knife, and held the tip to Methos' throat. Methos tried to look around her, to Sarah. He moved his desperate gaze from Cassandra to Duncan and Sarah and back to Cassandra again. A part of Duncan was amazed that the man stood his ground. That kind of hate and fury from the Witch of Donan Woods would have sent most men running for cover.

 

The children, many already crying, gasped and cried in alarm. Dammit, Duncan realized, the killers had used knives. Genevieve, who had positioned herself near Sarah's head, covered her face with her hands.

 

"Cassandra!" he called. "Put the knife away. The children!"

 

Cassandra acted as if she hadn't heard him. "Get out!" she screamed at Methos. "Get away from here!" She jabbed with the hunting knife, forcing Methos back a step.

 

"Cassandra!" Duncan tried again. "She's all right! It's a broken arm, that's all!" *I think,* he added, mentally. He hadn't had time for a thorough examination. Her ribs were still possible casualties, though her crying seemed to come from intact lungs, at least. Her crying, in fact, became more articulate.

 

"Adam!" she cried. "I want Adam!"

 

Duncan saw Methos' shock and dismay. Even Cassandra seemed to finally hear this call, where Duncan's had not penetrated.

 

"No!" Cassandra insisted, though the point of her knife wavered. "We don't need him. I don't want him anywhere near the children."

 

"Adam!" cried Sarah, holding out her good arm.

 

Methos tried to slide around the knife. "Cassandra," he pleaded.

 

Reassured that Sarah was in no immediate danger, Duncan stood to take charge of this drama.

 

Cassandra sliced at Methos, drawing blood on his neck and chest. He gasped and retreated, one hand to the wound.

 

"I mean it!" she yelled. "He's dangerous!"

 

A collective wail swelled from the children.

 

"Cassandra, stop!" Duncan ordered.

 

"I want Adam!" cried Sarah.

 

"QUIET!" commanded Cassandra.

 

Everyone hushed. Sarah, the other children, Methos. Duncan, too, felt a powerful compulsion to hold his tongue.

 

"Let's get one thing straight," Cassandra said, to everyone. "This man is not your friend. He's a murderer."

 

Duncan couldn't believe she was doing this. He couldn't believe she would say this to this group of traumatized children. He couldn't speak, but he could move, and move he did. He grabbed her by the arm and shook her.

 

Cassandra shook him off with a look so furious, Duncan actually thought of demonic furies plaguing guilty mortals.

 

"He kills children. I've seen him do it," she went on. "He killed my whole family. I do not want him here. I do not want any of you to have anything to do with him."

 

Methos' bloody hand fell from his chest. Eyes wide with shock, he regarded Cassandra, looking, Duncan thought, oddly young and vulnerable for a mass murderer. Methos looked at the children, who listened, many of them open-mouthed. He looked toward Sarah, and then at Duncan.

 

"Go now," Cassandra finished.

 

A child hiccuped, breaking the spell, but there was no taking any of it back.

 

"You'd better go," Duncan said.

 

Wordless, Methos left.

 

Around him, most of the children began to cry, many of them collapsing to the ground. Dismayed, Duncan looked at them, realizing that they were just too young for any more traveling. They were soaked, exhausted, shocked, and now they had lost a protector, and seen Sarah's fall.

 

Resisting his impulse to comfort them, he went to Cassandra, who had gone straight to Sarah.

 

"I don't want to hear it, Duncan," she said without looking at him.

 

"Don't use the Voice on me, again," he said.

 

"We'll stay here the night," she said as she worked at gently removing Sarah's cardigan.

 

Duncan fought down his irritation. The deed was done, and any further row over Methos would only injure the children. "I mean it, Cassandra. Don't use it on me again."

 

Cassandra looked at him, her expression unreadable. The rain lessened noticeably, then stopped. Thank God.

 

"I want Adam!" Sarah cried.

 

Cassandra scowled briefly, whether at Sarah or at Duncan, he couldn't tell. "It's fairly dry in there." She nodded at a four-foot wide cleft in the cliff face, which went back about ten feet before hitting granite. "She may go into shock."

 

"Adam!" Sarah called. "Come back!"

 

Duncan pulled out a blanket, not completely dry, but, being wool, good insulation nonetheless. Cassandra looked at him like he'd just grown wings. "You have blankets?!"

 

Duncan smiled tightly. "Be prepared."

 

"Do you have food?"

 

"Not that prepared."

 

"Adam, Adam," Sarah whimpered, as Cassandra ran skillful hands over her small body, searching for injury.

 

Genevieve stood. "Will she be all right?" Her eyes were wide and worried, but to Duncan she looked strong and capable, poised on the brink of adult judgments and responsibilities.

 

"She'll be fine, Genevieve," Duncan said. "It was good you got them all away from the camp so quickly. We'll all be fine. Come help me with the children."

 

Duncan and Genevieve worked at comforting the children and moving them into the crevice, where body heat helped warm the air. Duncan pushed away his own exhaustion to summon patience with Jean, who stood apart from the others, unresponsive, his face slack. When no amount of cajoling or persuading would move the boy, Duncan lifted him and carried him to the others. His skin felt cold. Duncan nestled him into the cleft, wrapped him in one of the blankets, and positioned him with his feet elevated along the groundslope, his head pointing downhill. The boy squirmed and objected, which reassured Duncan somewhat.

 

Cassandra worked with the crying Sarah, finally enlisting Duncan to carry one end of a blanket as a stretcher, to move her into shelter. Somewhere Cassandra had found some cloth to use as a sling, and she had also bound Sarah's torso tightly.

 

"I can't tell if there are any internal injuries," Cassandra told him. "She needs a doctor, but I don't want to move her."

 

"Those men could still be out there."

 

"I agree, Duncan," she said in an odd voice. "Something should be done about those men."

 

Duncan looked at her, knowing what she wanted. Knowing he could do it, too.

 

"If they hunt us, this place won't be hard to find," he commented.

 

"I'll make it hard to find," she replied.

 

That brought Duncan up short. "Can you ..." he almost couldn't believe he was asking this, "make us invisible?"

 

Cassandra snorted. "If I could do that, do you think I would have sat in that cage Kronos put me in?"

 

"They kept you in a cage?"

 

"And your friend came to torment me. He knows how to kill hope. He told me you were dead."

 

More questions churned through Duncan's mind. And he hated to think of her, a prisoner, with no hope of rescue. "Cassandra, I came as fast as I could," he told her, his heart aching.

 

"I know, my Champion," she said, briefly tender. She gave him a curious look. "That quickening, Duncan ... did it seem strange to you in any way?"

 

"What do you mean?"

 

She shrugged. "It's nothing." He saw her push away those memories, and look to the children. "They shouldn't sleep wet. We can build a fire here. I'll hide that, too."

 

"How?"

 

"So long as I call this place in the forest 'home,' no one will find it except by my invitation. I can't explain more. Trust me, Duncan; we can sleep here unseen. And I don't want to move Sarah again."

 

Duncan shook his head in amazement. "Well, I hope you have some magic to make a fire with wet wood."

 

She smiled wearily. "Gather the wood, *a bhalaich*, and leave it to me."

 

The children made few protests about the lack of dinner. A few of them cried for their mothers and whimpered that they wanted to go home, but, Duncan guessed, their shock and trauma may have deadened their appetites. He, on the other hand, felt famished, and he wondered when he had last eaten.

 

Cassandra did start a fire, and Duncan was uneasy, despite her assurances. He paced the edges of the clear area at the base of the cliff, listening to the forest as the daylight faded. Awaiting attack from the dark woods awakened some primal instincts in Duncan, and his own exhaustion faded before an alert focus that came over him. Cassandra, too, scowled into the darkening forest as she dried the children's shoes and shirts, but Duncan thought she feared a different foe. He could still sense Methos' presence, which meant she could as well.

 

Some of the children fell asleep by the firelight, curled in the sheltered cleft, but others stayed awake, taut and shivering. When Cassandra was content that their clothes were dry enough, she herded all the children into the cliff, wrapped herself and them in the blankets, and sang a low lullaby. Every child fell instantly asleep, and Duncan couldn't help but marvel at a skill for which countless parents through the ages would have sold their farms.

 

Duncan banked the fire down to warm coals, and positioned himself at the opening of the crevice like a guard sleeping in front of the door. Cassandra, as he had demanded, left him out of the lullaby's spell, and he was almost sorry.

 

He lay awake, overtired. The biting cold stung his face and nose when he brought them out from under the blanket. Duncan hated to think what the night must be like away from the fire, the shelter of the cliff face, the warmth of other bodies, and the blankets.

 

Methos. The man was still nearby; Duncan had never stopped sensing him. He must be freezing. Duncan shifted, restless, but tried not to disturb those children packed against his right side. His left side was more unprotected, and the insidious cold gnawed at his arm and leg.

 

Finally, deep into the night, Duncan could no longer bear it. There would be no sleep for him until he found Methos.

 

Moving carefully, he removed himself from the pack of sleepers, and found that the others didn't need his blanket once he himself left the group. He wrapped it around his shoulders against the vicious cold and stepped out into the forest.

 

Ancient woodcraft returned to him like a forgotten language, and he sought, without conscious thought, the hollows in the hills which might block the wind and collect insulating leaves and needles. Methos, he felt confident, would do the same. The man couldn't be far.

 

"Methos," he whispered with the whispering pine trees. How ancient was that alien name, he wondered. "Methos," he called again, tasting the name on his tongue.

 

A sudden rustling in the gloom to his right attracted his attention. Duncan's night-adjusted vision saw the glint of metal. "It's me," he reported, hoping that meant peace.

 

The glint vanished.

 

"MacLeod?" came a low baritone from the darkest pool ahead of him.

 

Satisfaction filled Duncan. His goal achieved, the oppressive cold again demanded his notice. He shifted the blanket and wished to be back at the fire-ring.

 

"What do you want?" complained the ownerless voice, broken with what Duncan recognized as chattering teeth.

 

"I've come to find you." Duncan moved, almost blind, into the darkness. "Come back to the fire."

 

Methos said nothing. Duncan halted, concerned that he might literally walk into the other immortal. He stood ankle deep in damp leaves, the same bed he would have sought in Methos' place. Methos remained silent.

 

"It's freezing out here. Come back to the fire. Cassandra can kick you out again in the morning, but you can't stay out here like this." Duncan now made out the huddled form of a man against the largest tree trunk.

 

The form unfolded, resolving into a standing man. "What fire?" Methos asked, breathlessly, as if speaking were painful.

 

"Follow me." Pleased that apparently even Methos had been unaware of their fire, Duncan turned and led a silent course back to the clearing by the cliffs. At least, since Methos had never left sensing range, there would be no new alarm at his approach to waken Cassandra. Reaching the small camp, he elected not to risk waking the others by joining the huddle. He wrapped the blanket around himself and stretched out by the glowing embers, opposite the group in the cleft cliff.

 

The starlight showed Methos, shivering, oblivious to the remains of the fire. Nor did he look at the sleeping children. Duncan turned over, seeking a comfortable configuration of his limbs and the ground.

 

Suddenly his blanket was ripped away, and a cold, damp body pressed up to his back, replacing the blanket over them both. "Hey," he hissed, though he stayed still. "What are you doing?"

 

"Getting warm," Methos muttered through clenched jaws. The violence of his trembling shocked Duncan, and he wondered if it was faked. But the frigid damp of Methos' body, sucking precious warmth from Duncan's broad back, could not be feigned, he realized.

 

"You're an iceberg!" Duncan complained. "I didn't say you could sleep with me."

 

"MacLeod," Methos lectured, though his teeth chattered throughout, "you asked me to come to the fire. There is no fire, and no other blanket. Where did you hide the children? Or do you not trust me to tell me? Now, warm me up, or I'll go back to my bed of leaves. They were wet, but at least they cut the wind."

 

Methos couldn't see the children! Nor the fire ring, apparently. Amazed, Duncan didn't respond.

 

Methos wrapped his arms around Duncan and shuddered against him. "Don't worry," Methos whispered. "I'm far too cold to molest you."

 

At that, Duncan threw Methos off in a burst of motion, got to his knees, and whirled on the other man, violence in his heart.

 

Methos threw his forearms crossed over his face. "It was a joke, MacLeod," he complained, still whispering, "It was a joke!"

 

Duncan viewed the man's defensive posture in some shock and his sudden fury evaporated. "I know," he said. He wondered at his own reaction.

 

Too cold to stay for long outside the blanket, Duncan plopped himself on top of Methos and snuggled the blanket around them both.

 

"What are you doing?" gasped Methos in alarm, tensing beneath him.

 

"Warming you up. Now, stay still."

 

Methos stilled, but for involuntary twitches as his shivering lessened. Apparently accepting that Duncan meant to be his bedwarmer, Methos shifted beneath him to warm as much of himself as he could manage. He twined even his ankles with Duncan's to warm his feet. He made little gasps of relief as the excruciating cold reluctantly released him. Duncan found that he treasured those tiny sounds, knowing the ecstasy that came from pain ending.

 

For many minutes they lay pressed together that way. Duncan knew an immense, primal satisfaction at having retrieved this particular wayward member of the group and at keeping him pinned and safe.

 

But he was exhausted, and he couldn't sleep this way. He was sure he was crushing the other man, too, though Methos didn't complain. Which was odd, when he thought of it. He must be that desperate for the warmth.

 

Duncan rolled off Methos, to lie beside him.

 

"Duncan," Methos asked after a long while, sounding less agonized and more like his old self, "why did you bring me in from the cold?"

 

Why? If Methos wanted to hear some statement of disloyalty to Cassandra from Duncan, Duncan intended to disappoint him. "We're going to need you in the morning. You won't be much help frozen and exhausted." Duncan took care to sound dispassionate and calculating. That's all it was.

 

"I see." Methos' neutral tone betrayed bitter disappointment, exactly what Duncan had intended. Methos turned on his side, his back to Duncan. "Well, thanks for the warm bed, MacLeod."

 

Duncan stared in weary shock at the dark form of the other man's back. Methos *had* thought Duncan intended to defy Cassandra's hate. Or he had hoped it.

 

Duncan found he had forgotten this man could be hurt.

 

He reached a hand toward Methos' shoulder, but stopped before touching him. This man, this immortal, this murderer, rapist, and torturer -- what did his pain matter? What comfort does the slayer of children deserve? Cold rage at all the evil Duncan had known in his long lifetime filled his breast. He pulled his hand back, but still stared at the lean body huddled at the farthest edge of the blanket, as far from Duncan as comfortably possible.

 

What slayer of children, Duncan wondered, would care what I thought?

 

The breeze shivered through the pine and birch boughs and the chilly stars watched from their lofty height. Duncan couldn't think; he could only feel that he stood at some abyss -- some momentous crossroads where his every step held irreversible choices. He couldn't be kind to Cassandra's captor; he couldn't betray justice that way. Why then did his cold words echo in his head, making him feel churlish?

 

He stretched out his hand again, paused, as his conflicting feelings tumbled through him, then, with the pain of acting against his very nature pressing on his chest, he crossed the gulf between them and laid his hand on Methos' shoulder.

 

"Methos," he whispered, frightened by his choice.

 

Methos shrugged away from the hand. "Leave me alone, MacLeod," he said.

 

Duncan pulled his hand back again. Stung by the rejection, he was also relieved at the reprieve. His choices were not irreversible after all. He could say nothing, now, and leave the hurt where he had put it. Methos didn't want his comfort. Methos didn't care, after all. Much more what Duncan expected from a slaver and ruthless conqueror.

 

Long moments passed and even the breeze was still. Sleep tugged at him, tantalizing, but Duncan resisted it. He needed to know the result of his choice. Would Methos just go to sleep? He barely breathed, waiting.

 

Then it happened. Sighing with exasperation, Methos rolled over to face him. "What, Duncan?" he asked.

 

Duncan smiled, though he knew the other man couldn't see him.

 

But he didn't know what to say. The man's crimes were real. Their two-year friendship might have been a sham. Must have been, really, since Methos' true self was nothing like the friend Duncan thought he knew. The friend who risked his life to save Alexa, risked it again to save Duncan... and then risked Duncan's life by shoving him into fighting Kronos for him and risked the whole world by helping Kronos, and who then...

 

Defended Cassandra and killed Silas.

 

He couldn't, he wouldn't apologize for supporting Cassandra. Her hatred was justified, and her pain from simply being in Methos' presence awakened every protective instinct Duncan owned.

 

Even in the dark, Duncan could see the ironic smile, which twisted Methos' features. Duncan had been tongue-tied too long.

 

"Don't worry about it, Highlander," Methos whispered. The wind and the pine trees whispered something, too.

 

Thus released, Duncan slept.

 

He slept lightly however, and woke often. He'd considered posting a watch, but knew his own skill well enough to know that few people lived who could approach their camp without his waking, and now it seemed Cassandra's power of illusion was real. Still, he watched for the earliest hint of dawn so he could be the first one up. Cassandra would realize Methos was there, and Duncan wanted to be ready for her.

 

He dreamed of Little Deer and her son. They'd all slept together, cozy against the cold. In one of his half-waking moments, he found himself pressed up to Methos' back, one arm over the man's shoulders, his half-erect cock prodding Methos' rear. He shifted, as his dream of Little Deer slid into a memory. A pleasant memory, for he'd often had that experience of desiring her while still in their bed, the wrong place for sex, at the time, for beds were so often shared among many people. Sex had been for private riverbanks, and remote meadows.

 

Without moving, he performed one of his automatic perimeter sweeps of the camp, relying more on hearing than on sight, and then settled back into those so-seductive memories. Before long, his half-dreams had him fully stiff, again prodding Methos' backside. He was loathe to move as much as would be necessary, or to remove his arm, as either motion might wake the man. His predicament brought him fully awake, for his erection was well into the stage where it demanded to be stroked. He held still, but his breathing quickened, and he swallowed, hard.

 

Beneath his arm, Methos stirred and tensed, and then his breathing changed. Either Methos also slept lightly under pressure, or something else had just awakened him. Duncan was sure of it. He held as still as he could and feigned sleep as well as his cock and breathing allowed. He prayed that Methos would slither out of his embrace.

 

Instead, Methos snuggled into it. To Duncan's dismay, Methos pressed gently against him, particularly in the hip area, trapping Duncan's erection in a uniquely unsatisfying crush. With one hand Methos grasped the edge of the blanket and pulled it to him more tightly.

 

Anger intruded into Duncan's state. It was bad enough to wake up to find he was embracing a man instead of the beautiful woman he had been dreaming of, but to find himself coddling a killer! Well, Methos was clearly already awake, so Duncan pulled away and rolled onto his back, still feigning sleep. He comforted his cock with an enveloping hand, and then he slept again.

 

Dawn's early light did not inspire him to rise. Blue-gray mistiness crept through the trees, almost colder than the night had been. How could he have forgotten that? Dawn brings only light in the mountains, never warmth. Pre-dawn was the coldest time of day, the forest frigid and damp, abandoned for so long by the sun.

 

Methos huddled at the edge of the blanket where Duncan had left him.

 

The gray light reminded Duncan of the submarine base. He'd been dreaming about that place. Wisps of the dream returned to him. Like his dreams of Little Deer, they were mostly memories. Unlike his dreams of Little Deer, they were not pleasant.

 

He'd been deeply frightened of fighting Kronos. He could admit that to himself. Thousands of years of skill and practice. Everything Duncan had expected to find in sparring with Methos, the legendary oldest immortal, and had been disappointed not to find. Every move, every stroke of the swordfight was etched in his memory. Everything had to be flawless; the slightest misjudgment would have meant his life. And the fight *was* flawless. Duncan's own skill and training, combined with his commitment to rid the world of the Horsemen threat, had paid off. It was, finally, Kronos who had erred. Koren, that larger-than-life butcher of south Texas, who had slipped up. He had let the sight of Methos' betrayal shake him.

 

As Duncan had let it inspire him.

 

And then the quickening. There was another memory Duncan was uneasy with. It was the most powerful, exquisite torrent of energy he'd ever experienced. Following closely after Caspian's equally ancient and nasty quickening, he'd thought it more than he could bear. He'd been so overwhelmed, in fact, that while he remembered calling to Cassandra to let Methos live, he couldn't remember much else until he'd found himself on the road. He did remember the extraordinary, erotic rush that had accompanied the general physical overload. And he remembered Methos in the maelstrom, though he couldn't say what exactly it was that he recalled. He only knew it made him uneasy. And oddly, aroused.

 

He was aroused again, he found. Some quickenings were like that, and these two had been pretty bad. He'd have to do something about it, eventually, he thought. He thought of Cassandra, ten feet away with a bundle of kids. Maybe later, she... and maybe not.

 

The cold would take care of the problem for now, he reasoned. And he had an idea about breakfast.

 

Duncan slid out of the warm nest he'd shared with Methos, and stood. Studying the cliff face, he summoned his memories of yesterday's journey, trying to determine where the rains would naturally drain. He listened, but heard no sound of water. He also listened for human movements, as he had during the night. He felt uneasy about leaving the children for the length of time he would need, but they had two immortal protectors, and Cassandra's illusion.

 

With a parting glance at the huddle of sleepers, he rubbed his chilled arms and padded eastward where he reasoned the natural fall line would be. Before long he was rewarded by the sound of running water, a sound that had been masked by the curve of the cliff.

 

He found the stream -- more like a small river, now that it was engorged with rain. Duncan approached with care born of older cautions than just the danger from their pursuers. Water sources, he knew, were traditional places of ambush for both animal and human enemies. On the other hand, he chided himself, some camping tourists with a vehicle, or better yet, a working cell phone or radio would be a very welcome sight.

 

He saw no one, both a relief and a regret. Upstream a distance, he spotted a good bivouac area -- sheltered in a hollow on three sides for warmth, with a rocky roof to keep off the rain. Defensible, with a clear view downstream, but not very well-hidden. The kind of place they might have chosen for a camp but for its visibility. He started to have an idea.

 

But, breakfast first. Looking back at the stream, he found the perfect broad shelf, where the sheeting water shallowed to reveal the small forms of the plummeting fish before they submerged into invisibility in the cascades below the shelf.

 

He removed his shoes and his trousers, wincing at the cold, both present and anticipated. His pants were still damp from yesterday's rain, but he preferred damp to soaked, so he draped them on a bush, shielded from sight by two boulders. He put his shoes back on and waded into the stream in his underwear. He positioned himself just below the shelf, the frigid water high on his calves, and bent over, watching for his prey.

 

Small trout they were, and Duncan caught and scooped them like a bear would, tossing them onto a boulder on shore. As the second fish flopped onto the boulder, Duncan saw someone standing there.

 

Andre, the oldest boy, watched Duncan in fascination.

 

"Andre! What are you doing here?" he called.

 

"Where did you learn to do that?" Andre asked.

 

"Did you just leave the others by yourself? Did you think that might be dangerous?"

 

Andre stuck out his chin. "I'm not afraid."

 

Duncan snorted, and tossed a third trout onto the boulder. Andre grinned in open admiration.

 

"Would you teach me to do that?"

 

Duncan shook his head in exasperation, but, privately pleased, he directed the boy to remove his pants if he didn't want them to be wet all day and to make his way out to Duncan's side. Andre stood rigid beside him, frozen with the shock of the cold, as Duncan caught another two hapless trout. Duncan felt very exposed, standing in the middle of the stream with unknown enemies about, and he regretted that he would have to get breakfast as quickly as possible, so he wouldn't have time to give Andre much instruction. Still, after ten minutes, they had a catch of twenty-one palm-sized trout, and two of them were Andre's catch.

 

"Enough," Duncan said. "Let's get out!"

 

Shivering, they redressed, and Duncan let a proud Andre bring breakfast to the group, carried before him in his shirt.

 

"Where did you learn to do that?" Andre asked again.

 

"Japan," Duncan replied.

 

A few of the children were awake by a newly flaming fire, watching the adults. Behind the children, Cassandra stood, fists clenched, between Methos and Sarah. Sarah sat against a rock near the fire, Genevieve's arm around her shoulders. Sarah turned a tear-streaked face toward Duncan, though the two elder immortals gave his approach not a glance.

 

"What's going on?" he asked the adults, trying to sound lighter than he felt.

 

"Duncan," Cassandra said, "I thought I made it clear I don't want this monster anywhere near the children."

 

"Adam," Sarah cried, sounding more mournful than demanding. "I want Adam."

 

Methos stood resolute before Cassandra. By daylight it seemed impossible that he could not see the fire and the children, but he never even glanced at Sarah.

 

"Cassandra, I want you to let Adam in."

 

"No!"

 

"Did you even notice," Duncan asked, "that Andre was missing?"

 

Both immortals regarded him stony-faced, though anger smoldered in Cassandra's eyes, and something flickered in Methos'. Methos looked at the boy with Duncan with a slightly startled expression.

 

"Andre," Duncan said to the boy, "take the fish over to the fire."

 

Methos squinted, watching Andre obey. Duncan wondered if Andre vanished from Methos' view. Methos blinked and looked back at Duncan.

 

"I may be the young kid around here, but I want it clear that getting these children to safety is the most important thing right now. Sarah will need special attention today, and it might as well be from Adam. Cassandra, you'll have eleven other children to care for. Adam stays until the children are safe. I expect adult behavior from those of us who are adults. Is that clear?"

 

Cassandra gave him a furious look. "And what are you doing?" she asked.

 

"I" he said with some satisfaction, "will eliminate the threat. Now, let him in."

 

"Adam," Sarah called.

 

Tight-lipped, Cassandra turned a glare on Methos. "Go to her," she spat. "Hurt her and I will rip you apart."

 

Methos again looked startled, viewing the cleft, the children, and the fire-ring. Duncan felt a thrill of awe at this further evidence that the illusion was real.

 

Methos flowed into Sarah like water when a dam has burst.

 

"Adam, why didn't you come? I wanted you to come, " Sarah said.

 

"I wanted to, Sarah, I'm sorry. I wanted to." Methos slid his lanky frame around the girl, supporting her back against his arm and shoulder. Genevieve yielded her place to him, and stood uncertainly.

 

"I tried to hold on," Sarah told him. "But you were so slippery." She sniffled.

 

Satisfied for the moment, Duncan gave some thought to his plan. He would need the blankets, and some rope. The tarpaulin bag had a solid rope for a drawstring at the mouth, but he would need more. He decided to cut the entire bag into strips.

 

"I'm so sorry," Methos said. "I didn't mean to hurt you. Was it very scary?"

 

"Cassandra said I could have been killed! I fell..." Sarah paused. Her voice held horror and awe.

 

"But you weren't. You'll be all right. We'll all be out of here by tomorrow. Can I see your arm?"

 

"No! It hurts if I move it."

 

"Okay, we'll leave it where it is. I'm sure Cassandra set it just fine. You'll be fine."

 

"Adam is that true, what she said?"

 

Cassandra was at the fire, showing the children how to prepare the fish, but she and the children quieted, listening to this conversation. Duncan, too, was riveted, but tried not to appear to be listening.

 

"It was a very very long time ago," Methos answered her. "I don't do that anymore."

 

Cassandra whirled to face the fire so her back was to Methos. Unable to resist, Duncan looked up from slicing the bag.

 

Sarah was nestled trustingly against Methos' chest, but she had leaned back to look at him when she asked her question. The other children fidgeted, but listened, rapt.

 

"Did you kill kids?" Sarah asked.

 

Duncan looked at Cassandra and saw her close her eyes. He wished he could spare her this. All she had to do was move farther away, into the forest, but Duncan knew she wouldn't dare leave Sarah unprotected from the murderer who had somehow captured the child's heart. It saddened him to realize that she didn't trust him to protect the children - not from Methos. She had to stay.

 

"Everyone, Sarah. Kids, too."

 

Duncan didn't want to hear this. Maybe he should move away. He hadn't wanted to hear Methos' admissions before, either. The anger in his heart was an old friend. Women and children. Unarmed men. *Thousands.* He suddenly felt wickedly glad that, if Cassandra had to go through this, so did Methos. *Not so easy to avoid a child's questions, is it?* Particularly not if you want her to trust you.

 

"Why?" Sarah asked.

 

*Yeah, Methos, why?*

 

"There's no good answer for that."

 

Oh, Methos was definitely not enjoying this.

 

"But I don't do that anymore. I would never hurt you, Sarah. Please believe me."

 

Duncan caught his breath. Cassandra went very still. Even the forest life seemed to quieten.

 

"Did you go to jail?" Sarah asked.

 

"What? No."

 

"Are the police looking for you?"

 

Methos paused before answering.

 

"No, Sarah, it was so long ago the police don't know about it." Methos began to sound exasperated.

 

Duncan sneaked another look, and smiled at Methos' incredulous expression.

 

His smile faded at her next question.

 

"Did God punish you?"

 

"What do you mean?" Methos asked.

 

"Mother says even if you don't go to jail, God still punishes you."

 

Methos looked stunned. If he had been conscious of his eavesdroppers before, his world was now only Sarah.

 

"Did God punish you?" she persisted.

 

Duncan began to fear that Methos would never answer. He feared it because he couldn't hold his breath forever, and Cassandra looked ready to collapse.

 

"Yes, He did," Methos said, low.

 

"What did He do to you?"

 

Would this never end? What in the hell would Methos say to that?

 

Methos moved slowly to position his mouth next to Sarah's ear. She tilted her head to listen as he said something to only her. Then he sat back up and they regarded each other soberly for a long moment.

 

"Now no more questions, Sarah, please. Here, I brought some willow bark." He produced a shaving of bark and began to scrape the inside of it with his fingernails. "I want you to eat this. They make aspirin from it."

 

"Ew!" she cried. "I'm not eating bark!"

 

Duncan breathed again. Finished with his task, he began collecting the blankets. Methos glanced at him.

 

"What are you doing?" Methos asked.

 

"I have some loose ends to tie up," Duncan replied. He moved to the fire-ring and, reaching past two of the children, he took out a burning brand. Cassandra studied him from the fireside where she had two trout skewered on a stick, her face unreadable.

 

"Where are you going?" Methos asked.

 

"You stay here until I get back. I may be the whole morning."

 

"I want some fish, too," said Sarah.

 

"In a minute, Sarah," Methos said, inching her off of his lap and getting to his feet. "Wait for me, MacLeod. I'm coming with you."

 

"No. I'm going alone."

 

"Adam!" called Sarah.

 

Duncan watched as Methos hesitated, glancing from Sarah to Cassandra, and back to Duncan.

 

"Sarah needs you," Duncan said.

 

It worked. Methos' shoulders slumped in defeat.

 

"Cassandra," Duncan said, "keep everyone inside..." he gestured at the perimeter of what seemed to be her illusion. "You know."

 

Cassandra nodded, still watching him impassively. A few of the children marked his armful of strips and blankets curiously, but they were mostly too excited about breakfast to pay him much heed.

 

Satisfied, Duncan left, his growling stomach complaining that he had left the fish behind. He traveled stealthily, and the dawn light brightened to early morning around him, bringing some tentative warmth to the forest. He hoped it wasn't too late to lay his trap.

 

He reached the dugout cove he had spotted alongside the river, and set up camp. His first challenge was to light a big enough fire to be spotted -- not easy given yesterday's rain. How *had* Cassandra managed that? Still, he did find some brush that had been sheltered sufficiently to burn, and that produced an abundance of black smoke rising against the gray sky.

 

He then arranged the blankets to resemble sleeping children, wrapped himself in a blanket, and made himself comfortable on the ground in plain view, by the smoldering fire.

 

He waited. The forest never lightened much, for the sky was still overcast. He kept his senses tuned to the ordinary forest sounds, knowing they would quiet at the approach of inexpert humans, but after time, he let his mind wander.

 

He saw again the still faces of the four murdered adults at the lodge. He thought of their youth, and of the admirable work they had been doing with underprivileged children. His slow fury began to smolder and spark within him. The violence in the banlieues made almost daily headlines. The later generations of colonial African immigrants to France were literally marginalized to the outer edges of the larger cities, where their educational and economic opportunities were almost nonexistent. The resentment among the young there ran high, and ran often to violent rebellion. Added to that was the growing, largely unabashed racism of the white population, fed by the National Front, a legitimate but racist political party, and even by President Chirac, who had once complained about the "noise and smell" of the growing immigrant population. Duncan remembered the hate crimes, the "Rat Hunts," and what was to him even worse: the Neo-Fascist snipers who, from banlieue rooftops, shot and killed children on their playgrounds. Duncan itched to get his hands on these killers. *Let the bastards come.*

 

A part of him marveled at his own willingness to lie in wait for his prey rather than comb the mountain forest for them. But from somewhere had come an immense coldness within him, a kind of hate that could wait hours or centuries for its dark fulfillment. If they never came, he would still find them. Find them and kill them -- slowly. And an equally cold but detached part of him had evaluated and estimated his odds of success in a hunt, given the obscuring rain which would have hidden trailsign. No, a trap was his best chance. He fully expected to be killed in his "sleep" in the initial attack. In fact, he was counting on it.

 

So he waited, hating.

 

He was not disappointed. The forest sounds stilled suspiciously, and Duncan's expert hearing detected the approach from above his camp of at least three men. He tried not to tense, but his skin crawled in expectation of piercing or explosive pain. He took deep breaths.

 

The knife, which pierced his side, slicing skin, muscle, and some internal organ, did not kill him right away. He convulsed with a slight cry, and then held himself still as every instinct cried out to remove the knife, the source of burning, fiery agony. Blood welled up in his esophagus, smothering him with a coppery taste. As pain and oxygen deprivation began to take his consciousness, he reached discreetly to remove the knife. The new slice of fire it caused coming out was his last memory.

 

And then he was back. He managed to disguise his first gasping intake of air; this was not the first time he'd needed to remain unnoticed as he returned from the dead. Fortunately, nearby voices covered any sound he made.

 

"Je ne le crois pas!" cried one voice.

 

"Qu'un idiot!" said another.

 

Duncan risked the barest peek under his eyelashes. At first he saw only the red puddle he lay in, but then he made out four men, their backs to him. They were all bald-headed, wearing forest camouflage fatigues, and one of them had a swastika tattooed on the back of his neck. Two men held automatic rifles -- he couldn't make out the type -- hanging from shoulder slings. They all looked at the blanket bundles, which Duncan could see were riddled with bullet holes.

 

He waited. He was not yet fully healed.

 

"Marcel!" one of them called. " Monte ici!"

 

"Le piège quel stupide." The tattoo'd man kicked irritably at a blanket bundle. "Et maintenant il est mort."

A fifth man clambered up from the stream side of the camp. "Merde!" he exclaimed. "Où les marmots sont?"

"Il était hors dans l'ouvert," complained tattoo-guy. "Qu'a il pensé qu'il faisait?"

The newcomer planted a vicious kick in Duncan's side. "C'est a chier," he swore.

Duncan seized the man's ankle, and wrenched it down with an immense twist. Newcomer-guy flew off his other leg and came smashing face down in the dirt. Duncan was on his feet, and then off them again, delivering a roundhouse-kick to the side of the nearest man's skull. It made a satisfying crunching sound.

"Fils de pute!" cried tattoo-guy, just before Duncan kicked him in the balls with the force it would have taken to kick in a heavy door.

Two men remaining. One brought his AK-47 to bear, and froze as Duncan smiled at him. Still holding rifle-guy's stunned gaze, Duncan saw with peripheral vision the other man rushing him for a tackle. Without looking directly at him, Duncan smashed his fist precisely in the man's teeth. His head snapped back, and his legs flew forward, out from under him. He hit the ground like a felled tree. A single fast grab, and the rifle was in Duncan's hands, the sling tangled around the last man's shoulder and elbow. He stumbled to one knee, and a single wrench on the rifle dislocated his shoulder. The man pitched forward, yelling in agony.

Duncan threw the guns aside, but held the full-size folding combat knife that had inexpertly skewered him. If they gave him any trouble, he preferred to threaten them in the more intimate manner a knife afforded. Starting with the first man he had downed, whom he suspected was not so badly hurt, he gagged and bound all five men. He bent them forward at the waist, and tied their wrists to their feet. He enjoyed the looks of unbridled terror that the three men who were reasonably conscious gave him from behind their gags. Smiling, he admired the knife, a well made folder with a black oxidized blade, dual stud opener, and a right hand rolling lock, and, still smiling, deliberately slit each man's wrists. Then, throwing the longer pieces of canvas strips over tree branches, he hoisted each man into the air until he was hanging like a deer carcass. Three of the men struggled and moaned, their wrists oozing out blood that ran in ribbons down their arms. Duncan laughed to see them. They would die slowly, and he could savor it.

But first, a dip in the stream. Duncan cleaned himself as well as he could, including the unfortunate side effects of unconsciousness and death, and had just begun to think about lunch, when he detected the approach of an immortal. He climbed out on the bank and wrung out his shirt.

"MacLeod?" he heard a strange note in Methos' voice.

"Here," he called back cheerfully. He felt immensely relieved to have the threat of the killers removed. Now the gray day seemed fresh and cheery. When Methos didn't respond, he put on his damp shirt and returned to the hanging men.

Methos stood there with his sword out. "This is your work?" he asked, his eyes in shadow.

Uneasy at the sight of a sword in another immortal's hand, Duncan asked "What's the matter with you?"

"What's the matter with me?" Methos asked in an unbelieving tone. "Since when do you torture people?"

"It's not torture ..." Duncan reconsidered. "Well, it's no more than they deserve. Would you put your sword away?"

Three pairs of bloodshot eyes watched the two immortals from their upside-down position. The other two pairs were closed.

"MacLeod, Kronos liked to hang his victims like this. Like animals hunted down and slaughtered. This is not you."

"Kronos? What are you talking about? These men are evil. But now we can go get help for the children."

"Evil? Yes, they probably are, if anything is. I'm not concerned about them. I'm concerned about you." Methos looked from Duncan to the hanging men and back to Duncan. He switched to speaking in Chinese, giving Duncan a slight jolt as his own mental gears made the switch.

"Duncan, every immortal in the Game has to rationalize a reason for killing, if they have any kind of a civilized veneer at all. You kill evil immortals. Good enough. But *they* are not immortal."

"So?" Duncan responded in English. "Why are you defending them? Recognizing your own kind, maybe?"

Methos also returned to English. "If Ingrid had done this, what would you do?"

"I can't believe I'm arguing morality with a rapist, a torturer, and a mass murderer. You must have been laughing your ass off over Ingrid. My moral dilemma. This is no dilemma. These men are dangerous. We know it was them who did it. And, they killed me at the start of our little encounter. I don't need a judge and jury."

"Neither did Ingrid."

"She killed a cop!"

"And before that?"

"I'm protecting the children! Are you so far regressed to the Horseman of the Apocalypse that you can't see that? Put your sword away, Methos, or we can finish it here!"

Methos stepped back, putting distance between them, but his sword never wavered. "Protecting the children means tying them up and fetching the gendarmes. Not bleeding them for fun."

"Bleeding them?" Duncan repeated as his mind whirled. Of course he was bleeding them. He needed to bleed them because ... he didn't need to bleed them. His world tilted under him and his pulse pounded in his ears. He hadn't needed to do that.

He stared at the hanging figures and blinked. The forest seemed to suddenly have a different focus. He saw what he had done.

"Methos. Help me get them down. Now." He moved forward, reaching for the knife.

Methos stood aside, still holding his sword. "You get them down. I'll stand here and watch."

Duncan was too horrified to be angry with him. He went to work cutting the canvas strips holding the first man, and lowered him to the ground. In a few moments he had them all down and used the canvas strips to bind the cuts on their wrists. Methos watched it all, impassively. When he had finished, Duncan looked up apprehensively and summoned his Chinese again.

"Why did I do that?" he asked, his voice trembling a little.

Also switching back to Chinese, Methos replied, "At a guess, I'd say you haven't completely assimilated Kronos and Caspian."

Duncan considered that. It explained some things. "Is it a dark quickening?" he asked with dread.

Methos shook his head. "You tell me."

"It seems different," he said after a moment. "But I've never had trouble with quickenings before."

"They were both very old, Duncan," Methos answered, and, for the first time, Duncan thought the hostility and suspicion in the other immortal's tone was softening.

"What does that mean?"

Methos shrugged and put away his sword. "It's supposed to mean something. Hence the legend of Methos and his so-powerful quickening."

Duncan looked down at his still bound and gagged captives. "I was going to kill them. Slowly, so I could enjoy their fear." His empty stomach roiled and he felt suddenly light-headed.

"Funny thing about that ..." Methos said.

Duncan stood and leaned a hand on a tree. "What?"

"You didn't do it right. I'm not sure how committed you really were to it."

Duncan looked at him.

Methos walked along the prisoners, frowning. "When you drain blood from a carcass, where do you cut?"

"The throat. But I told you, I wanted them to die slowly."

Methos shook his head. "So did Kronos. He would carefully puncture the jugular, so the blood drained more slowly. But it *would* kill them. You, however, slit their wrists. Horizontally, not vertically, and then you hoisted them so their wrists were elevated. I doubt they would have had enough blood loss to kill them. Exposure would do it, and maybe shock, for this guy." He nudged the man with the dislocated shoulder.

Duncan couldn't help but wince to think of the agony it must have been for that man to be suspended by his feet and arms. He really needed to sit down. He sat.

"What about you?" he asked. "Silas was old."

To Duncan's surprise, he saw the color drain from Methos' face, and the man's set features shifted to an expression of pain and weariness. Methos also sat down, about five feet away, ignoring the injured men within reach. "Yeah," he said. "Like I said, I really want a good fuck. Maybe a lot of good fucks. Bad fucks, even, I don't care." He gave a weary smile.

Duncan was abruptly reminded, in a very physical way, of his own almost violent waves of lust. "I know," he said. "Which one of them was the horny bastard?"

Methos fixed a sudden intense gaze on him and his eyes darkened. Duncan found himself fascinated by those eyes. His breathing quickened.

"Who among us isn't?" Methos replied, still with the weary smile.

Duncan nodded, distracted.

Methos unwound and stood, and Duncan watched the smooth and graceful motion of his limbs. "I think you're getting better," Methos continued, in that clinical tone he had used earlier. "Do you ..." he hesitated, "remember what happened at the sub base?"

"Only until the quickenings. After that, it's just a haze." Duncan's damp pants were far too tight.

"Then you're not done. Duncan, I can't let you go back to the kids."

"What? Don't be ridiculous."

"I'm quite serious. I don't know what you'll do." He inclined his head toward the trees, which, until lately, had held the bound prisoners.

Duncan struggled to swallow the anger that boiled in him again. As if he would do any harm to the children. As if *Methos,* of all people, had any right to judge *Duncan* a danger.

He glanced at the trees, and looked quickly away. He did his best to sound utterly calm and reasonable. "Methos, I can't just not go back."

"Sure you can. You can go straight for help."

"And leave the two of you? Cassandra thinks you're a threat to the children."

"But I'm not the one who's the threat, right?" Methos sounded like he was talking to an imbecile. Duncan ground his teeth. He hated the feeling of being the villain -- of Methos having the upper hand. Time to go on the offensive.

"You never said why you followed me. How did you know? What experience have you had with taking ancient quickenings?"

Methos regarded him in silence for a long moment, eyes narrowed. Then his mobile features shifted as he shrugged and looked at the prisoners. "Someone should stand guard here, I suppose," he said conversationally. "I'll trust you to go back and tell Cassandra what's happened if you swear to me that you'll then go directly for help."

"You're staying here?"

"I'd rather not be too involved with the police, if possible. I'm leaving as soon as you bring them back here."

Duncan frowned, puzzled. "Where will you go?"

"Somewhere with beer and a steak. What's it to you?"

*And a good fuck. Don't forget the good fuck,* Duncan thought. He found he was extremely reluctant to be parted from Methos. It seemed quite possible that he would never see him again, and that... panicked him. His own arousal welled back up in him, and, without considering the action, he stepped toward Methos.

Methos stepped back. "What?" he demanded.

Duncan stopped. He blinked at Methos, trying to dispel the sudden tactile memory of how it had felt to wake up, warm in the forest chill, his arms around the other man's solid, masculine form, his cock insistently poking at the warm, friendly bulk before it. He took a shaky breath. "That guy?" He indicated the man with the dislocated shoulder. "Treat him for shock for me."

"Get going. And promise not to stay with the children very long."

Duncan turned to go, feeling an emptiness in his stomach which had nothing to do with his hunger. "Yeah, yeah, I promise."

Duncan returned to the camp to find the children divided into two groups. Cassandra sat with Sarah at the fire ring, with a tight cluster of girls. The boys, except for Jean, held sticks, and were some distance away, pounding the sticks on rocks and whipping them against low bushes. Jean sat across the fire from the girls, apart from everyone, his arms tightly wrapped around his chest, staring into the fire.

Cassandra glanced up at Duncan as he approached, but she kept most of her attention on the discussion with the girls. Two of the girls had tears on their faces, and the tension in all of their bodies told Duncan that he didn't want to interrupt that gathering. He joined Jean at the fire, and was pleased to see that there were two trout left, already cooked. He picked them up and gestured with them at Jean. "Did you get enough breakfast?" he asked.

Jean scowled. "I don't like it," he said.

Duncan eyed the boy, but was too hungry to work harder at convincing him to claim the last of the fish. He filleted the two small fish with his fingers and flicked the skeletons expertly into the smoldering fire. He downed the two trout in a few seconds.

"Jean, you'll be going home soon."

"Don't want to go home."

Andre, seeing that Duncan had returned, left off whacking angrily at rocks and trees and came over. The other boys also paused and watched.

"Did you get them?" Andre asked.

Duncan stood and the other boys drifted closer.

"We got them," Duncan said. "Now Jean and I are going to get help."

Jean looked sidelong at Duncan.

"What did you do to them?" one of the other boys asked, with greedy enthusiasm.

Andre frowned. "Why him?" he asked, looking at Jean.

"I won't have Adam to help. I'll need Jean's help."

"He's a faggot," Andre said.

Duncan's anger rekindled, but he held it off. Anger, even righteous anger, was dangerous now. And he had promised not to stay long with the kids.

"It's Jean's help I need. Come on, Jean." The boy appeared to consider for a long moment, then got slowly to his feet and stood beside Duncan, a tiny but determined sidekick.

Cassandra separated herself from the cluster of girls. Duncan started toward her, then reconsidered and turned back.

"Andre," he said.

The boy looked at him.

"You've got enough real enemies. Don't make enemies of your friends."

He turned back to Cassandra, who had watched the exchange with knowing eyes. The rain had plastered her clothes to her voluptuous form, and much of the cloth had dried there. Duncan noted with curiosity both that she was supremely alluring and that he was no longer attracted to her. "I'm taking Jean and going for help. How's Sarah?"

"She needs her mother, a bed, and a doctor. She'll be fine if help comes soon."

"Where's Adam?" called Sarah.

"I left him on guard," Duncan replied.

"Is he all right?" Sarah asked.

Cassandra put a hand on his arm, looking alarmed. "He's guarding the men? Duncan, what have you done? If he joins them..."

Annoyed, Duncan broke her grip and went to Sarah. "Sarah, Adam is fine. He's making sure the bad men don't get away."

"He caught them?" she asked, her eyes shining.

Er, not exactly. "He has them tied up out in the forest where they can't hurt anyone."

"Is he still sorry?"

"What?"

"He said God made him sorry."

Duncan blinked, remembering Sarah's question about punishment. He struggled to keep his expression steady. "I don't think he's sorry those men are caught."

He stood and turned back to Cassandra. "It will be all right," he assured her. "Just keep the kids safe and I'll be back soon." He looked at her a moment longer, searching for the weak-kneed response she had evoked in him yesterday. He gazed into her beautiful sea-green eyes, now stormy with anger and suspicion, but he felt no desire. Not for her, at any rate. His body was still inflamed with desire for ... he wasn't sure what.

Nodding to Jean to join him, he set out, feeling Cassandra's distrustful gaze burning into his shoulderblades. He reflected for a moment on how much had changed in his life. He missed being trusted by his friends.

Duncan had to travel slowly to accommodate Jean, and he let the boy choose the route back over the pass, which resulted in more than one double-back, but the distance was not very far to the road and it gratified Duncan to see how seriously Jean took his responsibility.

When they reached the switchbacks, they had a clear view of the valley and the road below. The road was lined with police and emergency vehicles. Duncan smiled with relief.

Before much longer, Duncan was explaining his story to the police, glad of the support from Jean's testimony, for the police were edgy and hostile, and a good bit suspicious of the well-built foreigner who had appeared out of the forest. Duncan couldn't blame them, since he knew what they had found at the lodge, and Jean's unharmed and earnest presence bought Duncan the grace he needed to convince them of his story.

The bodies had been found and reported, Duncan learned, by the other camp counselors upon their return from the rafting trip. He was both sorry that he couldn't have spared them and the children with them the grisly find, and relieved that the fascist killers had followed him over the ridge and so weren't waiting at the lodge to claim more victims as the others returned.

Eventually the authorities decided that Duncan would return to Cassandra and the prisoners with a small detachment of gendarmes and medical personnel who would vector in police and hospital helicopters. Jean would get a ride to the hospital in one of the waiting ambulances.

Before he left, Jean tugged at Duncan's arm. "I'm sorry," he said somberly, when he had Duncan's attention.

"Sorry for what?" The boy looked so mournful, Duncan thought he might cry.

"I'm sorry Sarah got hurt because of me."

"It had nothing to do with you," Duncan exclaimed.

"Adam was all wet because I was too scared to jump across." He looked at Duncan with large dark eyes, begging him to contradict him.

Duncan knelt down before him. "Jean, it was very scary. I was scared. And Adam was wet because of the rain. It wasn't your fault. If anyone told you that, they were trying to hurt you. You're a very brave lad. Remember that."

Jean bit his lip and allowed a uniformed man to lift him into an ambulance. Duncan sighed, wishing he were in better shape himself before having to deal with so many wounded kids. *And adults,* he thought.

Wearily, Duncan climbed the steep crag again, leading the others. Watching rescue personnel swarm competently around their camp, Duncan could hardly believe there had ever been anything supernatural about the visibility of their location. He shared relieved smiles with Cassandra.

"I'm going with them to the hospital," Cassandra told him.

Duncan nodded. "You didn't get much time to... think about things," he said sympathetically.

"Oh, I thought a lot," she replied, rubbing one long-fingered hand over an eye. Her auburn hair, rather than hanging in damp strings, swept in graceful, full waves over her slim shoulders. Duncan wondered for a moment if she used illusions to make herself look like she'd just come from the salon. But one look at her tired eyes told him the reality of what he was seeing.

"Will I see you again?"

"Well," she gave a sharp laugh, "there's always the Gathering."

Dismayed, Duncan glanced around to see if anyone was within earshot. The police, who must be impatient to reach the killers, nonetheless kept a gracious, continental distance while he spoke privately to the beautiful woman. Before he could say anything, Cassandra cut him off.

"Pay no mind to me, Duncan," she apologized. She touched his arm. "I wanted to ask you... have you ever heard of a double quickening?"

"What? No." Duncan's gaze moved to the man aiming a flare gun at the cloudy sky. At the loud explosion, a few of the children cried out, then ooh'd at the quantity of red smoke which ballooned out and up from the muzzle. Radios crackled importantly. He looked back at her, to see that she had not looked away from his face.

"The legend is that if two beheadings occur at the same time, close together, the victors sometimes share the energy."

"What are you saying?"

"Duncan, I saw the quickenings. In the sub base. And that's what it looked like to me."

A policeman was approaching.

"What does the legend say it means?"

She shrugged. "One story is a love story. The two immortals are joined together in 'eternal passion.'" She arched an eyebrow, and glanced at the approaching man. "More likely is the story that the divided energy wants to be whole again, and the two are compelled to fight."

Duncan stifled an oath as they both separated enough to turn and include the policeman in their gathering.

"Monsieur," he said to Duncan, but with a polite nod at Cassandra, "your prisoners should not wait."

Duncan started to go with him, but stopped when he heard the sound of an approaching helicopter. "Will you be here?" he asked Cassandra.

"I don't know," she replied. "Duncan," she reached into a pocket and held out a key ring with a small globe of the Earth and two keys on it. She pulled one key free of the ring. "I was going to my cabin. It's above my car, across the vale from the children's camp. You're welcome there."

"Thank you," Duncan said, moved. "Tell Sarah good-bye for me."

She nodded, and turned to join the excited children without a backward glance.

The stream-side makeshift camp where the prisoners were bound was only a ten minute distance, and Duncan felt an immortal's presence as he approached. When he reached the place, the men were there but Methos did not show himself. Taking his cue from that, Duncan briefly explained how he had trapped the men, leaving Methos out of his story, and, of course, his own death. If his story differed from the killers' eventual testimony, he hoped it would be obvious that they had been mistaken about thinking they had killed him. He did admit to briefly tying them in the trees until, reconsidering, he had taken them down again. The leader of the police detachment took his statement impassively, but his colleagues didn't hide either their impressed looks or their passing skepticism.

Replacing Duncan's canvas-strip bonds on the prisoners' wrists with handcuffs, the police hauled them uphill, looking for a helicopter pick-up area separate from the one the medical helicopter was using. Their leader, who had Duncan's Paris address and contact information, advised Duncan not to leave the country for a while. Relieved that he wouldn't be required to accompany them, Duncan was nonetheless startled by the order. He was currently living in Seacouver, and had not expected to move back to Paris so soon. This was an unanticipated inconvenience.

After an irritated glance around for any sign of the immortal he could feel but not see, he returned to the children to see the rescue helicopter with its lowered litter, hovering above the trees, raising the last of the children, Genevieve. She looked down and waved bravely. Duncan waved back and gave her a thumbs-up, thankful that Jean had not had to depart that way. Cassandra, too, was gone.

The helicopter sound grew louder as the pilot gave the machine power to lift well clear of the forest. It rose, slanted, and flew away with its human cargo.

Duncan had a slight difficulty convincing the two remaining medical rescuers that he would not return to the road with them, and had no intention of seeking medical help for himself. Apparently leaving him behind would break some rule of theirs, but eventually they gathered their ropes and kits, tossed him some power bars from their pockets, and left him, heading over the pass. Duncan was, rather suddenly, he thought, alone.

More or less. He could hear the distant sound of the police chopper collecting its charges. And there was one immortal not accounted for.

The sun behind the clouds was well past its zenith, inching toward late afternoon. Duncan downed the power bars without thought, and poked absently at the remains of the children's fire, ostensibly checking for any remaining embers. He longed to search for Methos, but now he distrusted the longing. How much credence should he give Cassandra's legend? He tested himself by imagining himself leaving the forest, following the rescuers down to the road, and riding with them back to civilization, all without Methos. To his dismay, the visualization evoked great reluctance in him. He truly didn't want to leave Methos.

But was that so unusual? Would it be normal for him to leave a -- what? Friend? -- in the wilderness after they'd just been through these last few days together? He remembered with chagrin how unwilling he'd been just last night to have Methos separated from the kids -- from him. And he had insisted to Cassandra that Methos be allowed to come along. Surely that only made sense? They needed his help, right? And he'd obviously left Methos after the fight in Bordeaux. *But then Methos followed me.*

Shit. Of course it would be two-way. Which meant Methos wouldn't be far. He wouldn't have set off to find his steak and warm bed without Duncan. *And the good fuck.*

Slowly Duncan headed for the swollen stream camp. Again, to his relief, he sensed an immortal as he approached. He stood under the trees he had used to suspend the killers. "Adam!" he called. "They're all gone."

Methos remained hidden. Duncan felt oddly exposed, unseen eyes studying him. He could still sense the other immortal. What was the point of hide-and-seek? Duncan listened, but heard nothing besides the rustling leaves and occasional birds. The small fire he had lit earlier to lure the killers smoked and smoldered, which was strange, because Duncan had been careful to put it out before he'd left. Someone had kept it going, fed it just enough so it could be fanned into a real flame at need.

"Adam!" he called.

The last remaining Horseman of the Apocalypse stepped out from behind some trees, the Ivanhoe in his hand in what could only be an on-guard position. "Here I am, MacLeod."

"Methos. I was looking for you." To Duncan's dismay, his own katana was in his hand, his instincts reacting to the approach of an armed immortal without consulting the intentions of his conscious mind.

"And you've found me." Methos' face was tight and inscrutable. He stopped just beyond dueling range, his body in the relaxed tension of a fighter preparing to fight.

Duncan wanted to put his sword away. Really, he did.

He placed his other hand on the hilt of his katana, settling into his own ready position. "Would you put down your sword?"

"You first."

"You drew on me."

"You came hunting me."

Shit! Methos really was armed against him. And after they'd been working together so well. If Duncan didn't defuse this, it could have a very bad outcome. "I'm *looking for* you. It's not the same thing."

"Oh? Why didn't you go with the others? You stayed behind to 'look for me' in a nice, remote, empty forest." Methos rotated the hilt of the Ivanhoe in his palm. Duncan recognized the motion as a method of adjusting for a sweat-slicked grip.

Or Methos wanted him to think his grip was slick. Many duelers dealt in mind games before the actual fight, though Duncan had never known Methos, in sparring, to try that tactic.

He was suddenly struck by the thought that he might have never sparred with the real Methos.

He really needed to put his own sword away. Be completely vulnerable, as an act of trust. In a nice, remote, empty forest.

*Right.*

"Do you really think I asked Cassandra to spare you so I could take your head?" Duncan asked, still holding his katana.

"It's a possibility."

"Well, I didn't. We're friends, Methos."

"No, we're through, remember?"

The hurt he heard behind Methos' voice, could just be part of the mind games. An attempt to manipulate him into disarming himself using his own guilt against him.

Or not.

He knew what Connor would say. *Don't take stupid risks. If it comes to a fight, fight him. Live or die according to your own skill. No complaints and no apologies.* Duncan heard his teacher's words as if Connor were whispering to him from behind.

He knew what Methos himself would say. *Don't be a fool, Highlander.*

None of that mattered. Duncan dropped his guard and tossed the katana

aside, into some bushes, where its razor edge sheared some branches as it whirled.

"That was foolish," Methos said.

Duncan smiled.

"We have to talk, Methos." Duncan felt inexplicably light-hearted, having made his choice.

Methos regarded him for a long moment, then lowered his sword. "Don't you hate it when women say that?"

"I'm not your woman," Duncan responded automatically, but he knew a sudden odd uncertainty, like the way his world had shifted when Methos had pointed out that he was torturing his prisoners. A sudden erotic fantasy -- solid flesh, slippery blood, cold hard floor -- flashed across his mind and was gone, leaving Duncan a little short of breath.

Methos cast him an odd look, and tucked away his Ivanhoe. "You'd better pick up your sword, MacLeod; it'll rust."

Relieved, Duncan retrieved his katana.

Methos stepped back into the brush and brought out four small trout. He moved to the fire and began to blow on the embers. "So talk," he said, between breaths.

Duncan rolled a nearby rock into position and handed the other man a handful of leaves and lichen for kindling. Methos accepted the offering and nursed the fire into health. Duncan watched the firelight glow on Methos' enigmatic, chiseled features.

"Why are you still here?" he began, cautious.

Methos frowned and started to answer. He stopped, gave Duncan a quick glance, and then fed larger sticks into the fire. "That's my business."

Duncan took a deep breath. "I thought you wanted a steak and... other things." The other things Methos had listed loomed in Duncan's mind, making his blood race. He saw and felt again that vivid fantasy where he fucked a faceless body -- in fact, from the rear, so he only saw a broad shouldered, muscular back, blood oozing down from some wound.

Methos shrugged. "Fish are all right." He produced a pointed stick and skewered one of the fish. He suspended the stick across the little fire, resting the far end on an opposite rock, to make a spit. He did not offer one to Duncan.

The afternoon shadows which come early in the mountains reached their little camp.

Duncan swallowed, still breathing deeply. "Sarah missed you," he said. He watched the subtle play of emotions across Methos' face settle into a somewhat less guarded expression.

"How is she?"

"She'll be all right. They all will."

Methos nodded, his eyes unreadable. He removed his cooked fish from the stick, deftly prying the body open in the process. He extracted the skeleton and organs and flicked them on the fire with his thumb. It had been so long since Duncan had seen anyone peel and eat a fish with the familiarity of someone eating a banana, that it gave him a strange thrill of connection. He too, had eaten so many fresh-caught fish in his four centuries of life that he needed no tools, and dealt with the process as casually as spreading butter on bread. It occurred to him that he hadn't noticed how Cassandra ate her fish; he'd been too busy.

"Cassandra will never forgive you," Duncan said.

Methos bit into the fish and chewed thoughtfully. "She probably shouldn't," he said.

"For her own sake, she should."

"Easy to say, Duncan. Not so easy to do."

"You sound pretty understanding." Duncan let his tone betray his suspicion.

Methos shrugged. "I was there. I know what she... saw." He faltered over the words.

"I don't get you," he said. "You talk like you were just some observer."

"I'm over it, Duncan."

Anger flared in Duncan. Arrogant sod. "Oh yeah? How did God punish you?"

"What?" Methos gave him a shocked look.

"How did God punish you?"

"Fuck you."

*Fuck you.* The words rang oddly in Duncan's head, restoring Duncan's dark, erotic fantasy. In this fantasy the hard flesh and slick blood belonged to a man -- a man on his hands and knees on cold concrete, his jeans pulled down to his knees. Duncan imagined himself ramming his cock into someone's bleeding ass.

Duncan blinked, and tried to pick up the thread of the conversation. Would this ever settle down? He needed to get himself home and find a date.

The long afternoon shadows deepened into dusk.

"You talked to Sarah," Methos said, accusing, as if Duncan had cheated in some game.

Sarah? Oh, yeah. Duncan struggled to stay focused. "How can you say you're over it?"

"Because I am, Highlander. I had to tell her *something.*"

"So you're saying you lied about being sorry."

"Lied?" Methos' eyes glittered in the firelight. "Believe it or not, MacLeod, I usually tell as much of the truth as I can. I told her what she could understand. I didn't mean it for your ears." Either Methos' face had grown flushed or the fire glowed strangely on his face.

To Duncan's lust-clouded mind, Methos looked very appealing. *Shit!* He had to do something about this. It was getting worse. He could storm off into the forest and at least jerk off, he considered. Would a dip in the cold stream take care of it? This time he wasn't so sure. Right then he didn't think it would take much for him to come in his pants.

He gritted his teeth and pressed on. "Methos, do you know why you followed me?"

Methos scowled. "Of course."

"Why?"

Exasperated, Methos sighed. "So I could keep an eye on you, MacLeod. Make sure you didn't hurt anyone. Is that what you wanted to hear?"

"Is that all?"

Methos squinted at him. Duncan guessed he had expected him to be baited. "Get to the point, Mac."

Methos rarely called him Mac. Duncan shivered and shifted on his rock, his pants growing ever tighter.

"Have you ever heard of a double quickening?" His pulse was pounding.

Methos stared at him, his eyes slowly growing wide in shock.

Duncan said nothing; he struggled to get his body under control, and he wondered how much of the struggle Methos could see.

"Are you sure?" Methos finally breathed.

"Cassandra saw it." Damn, that fantasy or vision or whatever it was, was back, full force. This time he felt rage -- fury, betrayal, hate. The man on his knees was sobbing as Duncan *raped* him, battered him. The man was Methos... and his sobs echoed off the cavernous walls of... *the submarine base?!*

Duncan, stood and staggered, still partly blinded by the vision. No, *memory.* He found a tree and leaned against it, his groin begging for his touch.

Methos' shocked expression shifted into concern as he regarded Duncan. "MacLeod? What?"

"I... I..." He couldn't say this. How could he say it aloud? His breathing was harsh with horror, with lust, with remembered anger.

Methos rose to his feet, a graceful fluid motion which opened his whole long-limbed, unyielding body to Duncan's view. Methos' concerned expression was shuttered away, and Duncan feared that it was true, that Methos knew, that he knew that he knew...

Duncan had to know. "I raped you," he said.

Methos took a deep breath. "Duncan," he said. No shock, no denial.

Duncan fled into the woods.

At first he ran blind, disgracing Little Deer's people by the amount of noise he made. Then, as his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he slowed, struggling with his anguish, tears wetting his face.

How could he... ? How could he have... ?

The terrain sloped sharply upward, and Duncan tired relatively quickly. He wanted to run until he exhausted himself, punished himself, but it wasn't practical in the dense underbrush.

He stopped and sat where he was, feeling the damp earth chilly through his jeans like an intrusive memory. He pulled his knees up, rested his elbows on them, and hung his head in his hands. He had to face this. What had he done? He groped through his fuzzy memory and watched in horror as the images crystallized.

*The delicious quickening over, 'Victory! I win again!' sings through his veins as he regards the headless corpse before him. Now to kill that fucking traitor, Methos, after beating him until all his bones are splintered and he bleeds from every opening.

Still weak from the quickening, the fight, he raises his head to see that slave whore poised to give his traitorous brother an easy death. "Cassandra!" he yells. She should remember the punishment for disobedience. She hesitates, then raises Silas's ax again. "Cassandra!" he yells again, furious.

"You want him to live?" she demands. Methos, the disgusting weakling, weeps on his knees, too cowardly to defend himself.

"I want him to live!" he yells back. What does the cunt think? That she can have his brother's quickening? He'll tear her in half if she does it.

Still shaking, he pulls himself to his feet, and puts away his sword, a katana. Not his sword, but it feels right. "I want him to live!" he yells again. Of course he wants him to live. His brother, his friend. They fought this threat together, didn't they? But Methos

had his own ideas... that traitor. Cassandra sways and then drops the ax. She gives him a furious, betrayed look and leaves, her boots echoing in the concrete cave. Now the only sound is Methos' weeping.

As he grows stronger he moves up behind the man, but he leaves the katana out of his hand. He wants Methos to live, but he must be punished. Punished for ... his betrayal. Yes, he ... what did he do?

His enemy must have been powerful, for he knows this instant, raging hard-on would only grip him like this after an intense quickening. Around him, the scorched concrete and vaporized moisture also speak of the death of an incredibly powerful immortal. He releases his burning groin from its constraints, a belt now in his hand.

Methos continues to sob, heedless of the danger behind him.

Fury fills him, and he yanks Methos by the back of his jeans, flipping him on his side. He backhands him as a pre-emptory strike, and deftly rips open the fastenings of the jeans.

"Mac?" Methos asks, breathless, his so-tricky eyes red and unfocused in shock.

As strong now as he was weak moments ago, he pins the man's wrists in one of his hands and has the belt tight around them a second later. He yanks down the jeans, and a concealed dagger falls into his hand. Useful, particularly since the bastard has found his strength and has planted a foot in his attacker's solar plexus. The choice of strike was an insult, a non-damaging kick used against slaves or children, nothing like the piercing, wounding strikes due to a brother immortal. "Oof," he cries, but his fury burns brighter at the insult. He stabs the dagger into Methos' collarbone, hard, sinking it in to the hilt, feeling the bone splinter beneath the blow.

With Methos screaming and convulsing in agony, he rams his cock into Methos' ass. This was what he wanted! Pain, punishment, connection ... Blood streams along his arm holding the dagger, and trickles wetly around his balls as they pound against that skinny, muscular ass. So tight! So ... good. How he has wanted this. This triumph, this conquest. His already urgent need sharpens exquisitely and he rides a now limp Methos with brutal force. Stroke ... stroke ... pounding ... pounding. He sneers with pleasure. So good, so tight. He gives the dagger a twist and is rewarded with a new scream and a vise-like clamping of gluteal muscles. Ah! Ah! Yes! He has little hope of holding off the tidal wave, and little interest in doing so. It crashes over him, only a faint echo of the earlier quickening, but delicious in domination, nonetheless.

"Ahhh," he grunts and recovers, sweat dripping into his eyes, hair hanging in his face. Hair? Yes, his hair. His long hair. That was right, wasn't it? He shoves Methos from him and gazes in confusion at the bleeding, sobbing man, the dagger still protruding from his shoulder. The blood flows only slowly now. Shock, he thinks. He should be treated for shock. After someone takes that dagger out of his shoulder. He can't heal with that there. Not me, I put it there; I can't take it out. But ... someone needs to remove that dagger. I'm the only one here ...Confused, but feeling a primal imperative to give aid, he reaches out to grasp the dagger.

"No!" screams Methos as he inches away, his jeans still at his knees, blood covering his pale, almost translucent skin. Methos' sweatshirt rumples up, showing ribs beneath the skin in high relief.

Abruptly weak again, and deeply disoriented, he turns to leave the place. But, the dagger ... Methos' own hands are still bound. He approaches cautiously, trying not to stagger with exhaustion.

"Let me ..." But he doesn't know what he wants to say. He wanted this man punished, right? It's no more than he deserves. He sways, very close to fainting. He lowers his head for a moment to restore his own blood flow to the brain.

Watching him through pain-filled eyes, Methos allows him to approach the bound hands and remove his belt from them.

Relieved, he stumbles toward the exit Cassandra had taken.

"Duncan," Methos calls.

That's my name, he thinks. He's calling me. He stops.

"Don't..." Methos falters, "leave."

He doesn't want to, he finds. He wants to stay near this man, make him a part of himself. But he's too confused and exhausted. And ... guilty? Why guilty?

He leaves, seeking daylight.*

Duncan's entire body in rebellion, he heaved and threw up the power bars and the fish. Grief ripped at him, shredding his world. Nothing would ever be the same. Nothing could ever be the same.

His floating thoughts returned to the submarine base like a magnet had drawn them there. Remembering his thoughts then, he marveled at Kronos's presence in his own will. How could he have been so weak? He should never have let that happen.

He flinched away from those searing memories and cast further back, to Caspian's quickening. It, too, had burned his spirit and hammered his psyche with vile, twisted imagery. He had tumbled in that quickening, as well as in the river. When he had finally climbed out of the river, he had thought it was over, but now he remembered how a deep hate had smoldered in his heart. Was it his own hatred for Kronos? He had believed so, then, but now he doubted.

He doubted everything, particularly about himself.

He sat, numb, as the night deepened around him. His thoughts moved slowly, weighed down with pain. He had done the unthinkable, and to a man who had been a friend. How could he ever make amends for such a thing? Even if Methos were Duncan's worst enemy, Duncan would never have done that. Never.

Disconnected, Duncan lost his sense of the passage of time. At some point he became detached from his deeply chilled body. The floating sensation was a relief, in that it separated him from the soul-deep agony of his memories, but he vaguely recognized that shock had made him more vulnerable to hypothermia. Why shouldn't he freeze to death? What difference could it make, really? But an innate, stubborn reverence for life propelled him to choose not to die.

Slowly, Duncan's thoughts cleared, and his miasma of grief lightened. He thought, haltingly, reluctantly, of Methos.

Duncan had been furious with the man, disappointed in him, disgusted with him, and had felt betrayed by him. All judgments, he now felt, which could only be rightly made by a good man. He was no longer certain that he qualified. And where did that leave him? He hurt so much; was there anything he could do to lessen the pain? Any redemption?

He knew the answer. He had to return to Methos.

Gathering his cold-stiffened limbs, he made his way slowly back to where he had left Methos. The dark of the forest around him felt alien, hostile. He had not gone far before he saw the flicker of firelight to guide him, but he faltered, fearing this meeting as he had feared few things in his centuries of life. His last steps forward were like the final steps which took him to Tessa's corpse. His world was about to change forever, because of his failure. He paused just out of Methos' view -- foolish, really, Methos could certainly feel him, but he felt oddly that he needed an invitation.

Methos sat by the fire, a blanket tossed over his shoulders like a cloak. For all his complaints about wanting his comforts, he managed to appear as relaxed and at home as he had on Duncan's couch. "Are you coming out, MacLeod?" he asked.

Duncan stepped into view, and the two men regarded each other in silence.

"You're still here," Duncan said, cautiously.

"I wanted to keep an eye on you. I thought I knew why, but now I'm not so sure." Methos shrugged and began to kick dirt onto the fire. "I'm glad you didn't take all night."

"You knew I'd come back."

"For more than one reason." Methos shook his head. "A double quickening," he said, as if to himself. "Fire or ice, I wonder." He picked up some bound tree boughs, which he had fashioned into a torch, and lit them with the last of the fire. He smothered the embers and held the torch up. "Do you want my head?" he asked.

"No!" Duncan exclaimed. "Do you want mine?"

"If I said yes, would you give it to me?"

"No," Duncan answered, startled. He had only been gauging Methos' resentment, and also testing Cassandra's legend.

"Good. I've never wanted your head, MacLeod, not even when you were being an ass."

Duncan's shame flushed through him, returning his nausea.

Methos seemed to read his thoughts. "That's not what I..." The torchlight showed a look of weary irritation on his face. He looked away. "It's late. I don't know if we'll be able to catch a ride on the road. I was thinking -- this stream probably feeds into the Pique not too far from here. Then we shouldn't have to go far before we find a resort or two.

"Or not," Duncan replied, trying to sound normal. Not that there could be much normal about a casual discussion between rapist and victim. "I know a cabin near here. I'm going there." He set off toward the pass and the road, not willing to explain more. If Methos chose a different destination, it would almost be a relief. And it would prove that the two of them *could* part.

But Methos followed, bringing the light with him.

They traveled in silence. Duncan still felt physically sick from what he had remembered, but he worked dutifully at sorting out memories from fantasies. Both fell into place, and, once the memories were faced, they left behind fantasies which seemed to belong to Duncan only. Fantasies which would make it even more difficult to spend the night with Methos.

The world looked very different than it had a day ago; the curtain of clouds had parted to leave a star-filled sky and a gibbous moon, which sent icy light down wherever the roof of trees failed to block it. Duncan had no difficulty locating the place where Cassandra's car should have been, but it was gone. Towed, he guessed. Probably the fate of all three cars.

He retraced the path to where he had joined her, and from there, followed his instincts. Where would she build a cabin to retreat to? She would want a view, but want not to be in view. He hoped she hadn't ensorcelled the place and neglected to mention it.

Methos saw it first. "Is that it?" He gestured with the torch.

Duncan didn't answer, since he couldn't be sure. He headed toward the dark break in the trees, which held a solidly-built pine wood cabin with a steep roof. Cassandra's key worked, to his relief. He stepped inside.

Methos jammed the torch into a wedge between some stones outside the door, and joined him. They both waited for their eyes to adjust to the deeper darkness.

Duncan felt Methos' presence behind his shoulder acutely. The hairs on his neck prickled. As soon as he could see, he stepped away.

Looking around, he saw three rooms: the main room, a small bedroom, and an even smaller kitchen. The refrigerator -- door standing open and dark -- told him that the place had electricity. He probably needed to flip the breakers.

He crossed the kitchen in three strides and unlocked a back door. From there he circled the outside of the building, using the moonlight to search for the breaker box. He found it and threw all the switches. Lights came on inside, spilling out of doors enough to show Duncan the water pump. He primed it, turned it on, and checked that it was drawing water. Reassuring, mechanical actions, which helped him not think about things.

He went back inside, closing the door of the now humming refrigerator. Methos stood before a small fire in the fireplace, which was drawing nicely. He was not watching the fire, however. He stood, head cocked to one side, regarding a spinning wheel, which stood in a corner. He glanced at Duncan.

"I take it this is not your place," he said.

"I never said it was." Duncan rooted around in the few possible storage areas, and located bedding. He began making up the one full-size bed. Unfortunately, Cassandra had nothing resembling a couch or cot. Duncan brought extra bedding into the main room, intending to make a bed on the large wool rug in front of the fireplace. Methos stood at the large window, silhouetted against the blaze of stars above the clearing beyond. He appeared to be staring at the sky.

He dumped the bedding onto the rug and joined Methos at the window. They both looked at the sky.

"Have they changed any?" Duncan asked, quietly.

"What? The stars? Since when?"

"Since 5000 years ago."

Methos breathed out in what could have been a snort. "You know they have."

"But you can remember it."

"So? I bet you remember how to set type by hand. Not that it will ever matter again."

Duncan frowned. "Why do you do that?" he asked, almost to himself.

Methos understood him perfectly. "Not dwell in the past? Three guesses." He threw Duncan a wicked look. "No, four."

"Are you ever going to tell me about Kronos?"

"He's dead now."

"I know that."

"So, he's in the past. You tell me, whose cabin is this?"

"It's Cassandra's," Duncan said.

"Were you planning to tell me that?"

"Not if I could avoid it," he admitted.

"My thoughts exactly," Methos replied, somewhat cryptically, Duncan thought. "And when can we expect the lady of the house to return?"

"I ... don't think she's coming," Duncan faltered. He hadn't even considered that possibility.

"Why not? Wasn't she intending to meet you here? She won't stay long at the hospital; they'll start wanting to check *her* out. She was on her way here, right?"

"What if she does come? It might be for the best."

"I don't think so. Don't you try to play peacemaker, MacLeod. I'm leaving."

"No," Duncan said, his heart pounding. "Don't go. I thought . . ." he searched desperately for a persuasion. "I thought you needed to keep an eye on me."

Methos gave a noncommittal shrug.

"At least get warm," Duncan said.

Methos looked at him, unreadable.

"Stay," Duncan said. "The bed is yours. I'll take the floor." He stopped, uncertain. It was so important that he not make a mistake here. "You have nothing to fear from me," he said.

Methos laughed. Not the reaction Duncan had expected.

"Duncan, forget it," Methos said. He turned from the window and settled bonelessly onto the hearth rug. He tugged off a wet shoe.

Duncan frowned and moved forward, kneeling next to the bedding and fidgeting with the blankets. He wished Methos would move away and let him set up nearer the fire. Methos had a warm bed waiting for him on the other side of the wall. "Forget it?" he asked, incredulously.

"It wasn't you. Old quickenings can be hard to assimilate, they say. Kronos died hating me," he said. "Hating me a *lot.*"

Duncan thought about that. "I hated you, too," slipped out of his mouth.

Methos nodded, his mouth in a tight line. "That probably helped."

Shit. So it was still his fault.

"It wasn't you," Methos said, stretching his now bare feet toward the fire. "Move past it."

"It's not that easy."

"It can be." The firelight warmed Methos' face, giving his skin a ruddy glow. His eyes were shadowed, though, because his face was turned toward Duncan. Duncan suddenly thought that he'd like to see what the firelight did to Methos' eyes.

But first he had to ask. "Was it easy for you?"

Methos looked back at the fire. His voice was tight with annoyance. "You know, Kronos believed that I had lured you away from the hotel room in Bordeaux, expressly so the others could snatch Cassandra. Or so he said."

"Was he right?"

"He was giving me a chance. He could have killed me for meeting with you."

Duncan sorted uncomfortably through this information. Not for the first time, he tried to imagine Methos with Kronos. Was it a joyful reunion of "brothers" or something else? Methos seemed to assume Kronos could easily kill him. And that he would. It didn't sound like fraternal camaraderie. It sounded like a deadly tightrope.

Methos was trying to tell him something -- show him something, without apology. But Duncan feared he was too tired and . . . distracted to listen closely enough.

"I can't just forget what I did," Duncan said.

Methos lay back, stretching his long frame from the hearth to the far edge of the rug. He put his hands behind his neck. "Well, fine," he said. "Beat yourself up over it, then."

Duncan swallowed. How could Methos pretend *he'd* forgotten it? Rape, Duncan knew, left huge emotional scars. How could Methos adopt such a relaxed and . . . exposed posture in front of him?

"I'd give anything to undo it." And he'd give anything to quell the warm flush spreading through his abdomen. There was no denying, he thought ruefully, that this desire was for Methos, and he knew himself well enough to be confident that it had nothing to do with Kronos. Ironic that he should realize this now, when he had no right to act on it. A second flush met the first, but this one was of shame.

Methos regarded him with half-closed eyes. "Anything?" he asked, lazily.

Something in Methos' tone put Duncan on guard. There could be danger here.

"But there's nothing I can do," he replied, cautiously.

"You could make it up to me."

He knew what Methos expected him to say, and he knew he could not deny him, no matter how manipulated he felt. "How?" he asked, resigned to any task.

"I need a good fuck. With you. What do you say?"

Duncan blinked. Had he really said that? His thoughts whirled, looking for a response. His body provided a response, once again making his pants too tight.

He must have taken too long to answer. Methos rolled to his feet. "See, Highlander? Now, is it really so hard to just get over it? When the alternative is unthinkable?"

With a smirk and a saunter, Methos headed for the small bedroom, peeling his shirt off over his head as he went.

Duncan exhaled and listened to his pounding heart. His hand went to his groin. He adjusted his pants, and gently massaged his cock through the damp cloth. He stood and followed Methos around the corner to the bedroom on the far side.

Methos had a small reading lamp turned on, making a friendly glow in the shadowy room. The warmth from the fire seeped into this room, creating pockets of warm air circulating with the chill. Methos glanced at him, fluffed the down-filled bolster, and began un-self-consciously removing his wet jeans.

"It's not unthinkable," Duncan said.

Methos paused. The moment stretched. "It's not," he said, neutrally.

"No. Did you mean to shock me?"

Looking skeptical, Methos slowly finished removing his jeans and underwear. Duncan looked, and saw, in the shadows cast by the reading light, Methos' semi-erect cock bobbing with his movements. "You are full of surprises, MacLeod," Methos breathed.

Encouraged by the lack of sarcasm in his tone, Duncan stepped closer.

Naked, beautiful, and unconcerned, Methos did not move, but he narrowed his eyes. "I don't want to be your penance," he said.

With this newer proximity, Duncan saw the flush start on Methos' chest and inch up his long throat. Methos' scent came to him then, mixed with pine and leaf smells. Duncan felt light-headed.

Duncan raised his eyebrows and used his best throaty tone of voice. "You weren't serious, then."

Methos' breathing quickened. He lifted his chin. "You couldn't," he said.

"Is that a challenge?" Duncan was pleased to see the effect his words had on the other man. Methos' cock swelled and expanded.

"You'd be afraid of hurting me."

Duncan froze. Methos had thrown up a barrier better than a wall. He took a deep breath and then exhaled, frowning slightly.

"You're good," he admitted.

Methos gave a small smile and turned to the bed. "Been there," he said quietly as he flopped open the down bolster.

Duncan watched with stunned disappointment as Methos -- all six gorgeous, naked, feet of him, slid into the bed. Why had he done that? Duncan could *see* the man's desire for him.

His tousled head on an ample pillow, Methos regarded him.

Duncan unbuttoned his shirt and removed it, then unfastened his trousers and stripped.

Methos watched, eyes dark with interest.

"You'll just have to fuck me, then," Duncan said. He moved to the opposite side of the bed.

Eyes sparkling, Methos shook his head. "I told you. I won't be penance."

Duncan lifted the bolster, and slid in between deliciously soft linens. "I'm not looking for punishment," he said softly. "Make love to me. Let me make love to you."

Silhouetted against the dim light, Methos was something of an indeterminate lump in the bed beside him, but the scent of rain and leaves surrounded him, like a perfume on the sheets. He savored the anticipation of that first questing touch with a new lover -- the first tactile connection that said *yes, we are doing this.* Duncan reached for Methos, like he had in the forest, for connection. His skin seemed to tingle with desire to be touched and stroked. Between memories and anger, there could be so many dangers here, but for this one delicious moment, Duncan knew only a virgin excitement. He was not a virgin with men, but it was territory he had seldom entered. Often it had seemed wrong to him, on some level, even when his rational mind told him that the world was full of experiences for him to enjoy, and this was merely one of them. In reaching for Methos, however, he felt none of that faint guilt, only the excitement of something new, and the desire to give and receive comfort.

Methos turned to face him, so Duncan's hand beneath the covers reached Methos' shoulder. From there he slid slowly down his arm, no other part of their bodies touching. The rest of Methos' body remained unmapped landscape, and Duncan did not rush the exploration. He truly wanted Methos to take the lead so he could be sure they didn't go anywhere Methos might flinch from. He caressed Methos' upper arm, the location chaste, but the motion as provocative as he could make it. He explored the tight bicep, the sensitive underarm, the hook of the elbow. Every inch of Duncan's skin seemed to cry for contact, but he kept his distance, praying he could get Methos to take over. Methos had issued the invitation, after all. Duncan hoped fervently that he really wanted it, because Duncan did. Oh, how he wanted it.

He didn't have to wait long. If Methos had had any real reluctance, he set it aside and responded. At first, like in the give and take of a swordfight, he only matched Duncan's own move -- he reached his hand across the space between them and placed it on Duncan's side. Slowly he stroked his palm up and down Duncan's ribs, not covering much territory. To Duncan, the touch felt tentative, so he steeled himself to keep his own advances in check, insisting that Methos be the one to escalate the contact. But it was hard. Not only was his skin begging for more physical touch, all his nerves were primed and jangling - quivering with excitement at caressing a new lover. Biting his lip, Duncan continued his attention to Methos' well-muscled arm, and waited.

"Is that all you're going to do?" asked Methos softly, but with tension in his voice.

"You go first," Duncan replied.

Methos paused only a moment before replying, "Right." He moved his long arm along Duncan's skin, hand snaking to his back and curling up behind the shoulder. He tightened his grip, pulling himself into Duncan's embrace.

Something in Duncan relaxed, relieved to finally be skin to skin with this man. He was stretched full length along Methos' fever-hot body. He sighed.

Their faces close in the shadowy room, Duncan could feel Methos' warm breath tickling his cheek. Methos slid his bottom arm, the one beneath their bodies, the one Tessa, borrowing words from Richie, had referred to once as "the dorky arm;" slid it to a position above his head and under the pillows. The brief thought of Tessa was unfortunate; Duncan was abruptly engulfed by a wave of sheer alienness. This was a man he held, and not just any man; Methos.

For a moment Duncan was glad he was not taking the initiative. For that moment he couldn't do anything.

Methos put his hand between Duncan's shoulderblades and pressed Duncan to his chest, placing Duncan's chin onto his shoulder. It felt more like a fierce hug than like foreplay. For no reason he could name, tears sprang to Duncan's eyes. He blinked them away.

"Asps. Very dangerous. You go first," Methos murmured against his ear.

Duncan hugged Methos back, slipping his own "dorky arm" beneath Methos' chest, where it would soon go numb if the two of them remained on their sides. "What?" Duncan mumbled.

"Nothing," Methos answered, and Duncan could hear the smile in his voice.

Duncan's cock, hard and full and as ready for action as any drawn sword, was pressed pleasantly into some warm terrain of Methos' body. It throbbed, demanding attention. Duncan swallowed a moan. It seemed he had been aroused for ages. He fervently hoped Methos would speed things up.

"Your turn," Methos said, and teased Duncan's ear with his nose.

Duncan turned his head enough to look more fully at Methos' face. Methos' eyes were half closed, and a rosy flush colored his cheeks.

"You're sure?" Duncan asked.

Something hard flashed in those changeable eyes. "Told you," he said, sounding like his usual cynical self.

"Not a problem," Duncan protested. He was not hung up about the rape. He was not. He was only going carefully. Trauma induced anxiety could come out of nowhere.

Not that he wasn't glad of the invitation. Passivity in bed did not come naturally to him, and his own need burned along his nerves. But it was not his own need he intended to attend to. Struck by a sudden desire to *see* Methos, he propped himself up and pulled back the bolster. Before him lay the whole glorious, vulnerable, flushed form of his friend, still on his side.

Loosing his grip on Duncan, Methos moved his hand to grasp and massage his own proud cock.

Duncan's earlier experiences with men had been hobbled by self-consciousness and by an uneasy monitoring of his own responses. None of that hampered him now. The sight of Methos urgently stroking himself went to Duncan's superheated libido like gas on a fire, and Duncan couldn't stifle a groan.

Methos looked up at him expectantly, breathing quickly through parted lips.

Duncan grasped Methos' buttock possessively, feeling the quiver of tensed muscles and the building rhythm of motion. He remembered so well how he had beaten and abused this beautiful body. He'd give anything to undo that. But it seemed Methos was taking matters in hand without him.

As if reading his mind, Methos stopped stroking himself, and reached up to Duncan's chest, finding a taut nipple and rubbing it in a circular motion.

It was more than Duncan could bear. With a sound close to a growl, he covered Methos with his body, clutching Methos to him, burying his face against a bared throat. Though a part of his mind was dismayed by the force of his tackle, he could no more stop himself than he could stop a storm. His hips jerked reflexively against Methos' groin, searching vainly for a sheath for his needy cock. For a brief moment he coveted Methos' ass, the one part of his anatomy which Duncan knew could give him the tight, engulfing satisfaction he craved, but he blotted out the thought swiftly, before it could bring memories with it.

As if fending off his own memories, Methos reacted to Duncan defensively, rolling and grappling, so the two wrestled for a moment amid the bedclothes. Duncan found himself on his back, his head on the pillows, Methos straddling him at the pelvis. Duncan stilled and looked up into Methos' face.

Methos' expression was slack, vacant, almost confused. His gaze searched Duncan's own face, looking for something. Duncan inhaled to speak, then held his breath. He wasn't sure what to say; he could only gaze back and hope. Slowly, Methos' features recovered the sharpness and perception Duncan knew, then slid on to a mischievous expression Duncan did not know. Smiling slightly, Methos slid himself back along Duncan's form, over and past his groin, until his cock bobbed up beside Methos' own. Methos regarded the two organs speculatively, then moistening them both with fluid from their tips, he began stroking them together. Duncan breathed again, deeply, and he felt perspiration spring from his pores.

Duncan struggled to hold his hips still; if he moved he might throw Methos off rhythm. And that rhythm was heavenly! Methos stroked and coaxed and kneaded with an expert touch. The golden glow of the reading lamp reflected off the fine layer of sweat on Methos' chest. Methos tipped his head back, eyes half closed, and panted. The light let Duncan watch every subtle increase in Methos' physical tension -- the erect nipples, the tightening muscles, the growing flush, amber in the diffuse light, which started on his abdomen and spread slowly up his chest, finally covering his throat and face. Every sign of Methos' pleasure increased his own until Duncan felt he couldn't tell where his body ended and Methos' began. A groan escaped him; he couldn't hold still much longer. His pelvis twitched and pulsed.

Methos opened his eyes -- inky black with shadow and desire, and smiled down at him. He quickened the pace of his hands, thrusting roughly down both shafts. Pre-cum leaked everywhere, slickening Methos' sliding palms, teasing fingers, and rod-hard cock. The exquisite torment was more than Duncan could take; he began bucking, lifting hips and groin and man, straining into that hand, rubbing alongside that cock, dreading that Methos would fall off and end this contact. He held tightly to the other man's hips, trying to hold him in place. This must not stop!

Methos grinned widely, and stayed firmly seated, moving his hands ever faster as Duncan strained and gasped. Duncan saw on his face the moment where Methos' concentration withdrew into his own physical state -- mounting to the inevitable -- and still Methos' hands did not falter. Gems of sweat crowned his brow, and his chest rose and fell in faster and faster gasps. Duncan's own state mirrored perfectly what he saw on Methos until they were both bucking, gasping, clenching, and moaning for release.

Methos threw his head back and gave a long, sinking, satisfied cry as he gushed over the shafts he held. Duncan teetered on the precipice, then tumbled blissfully over it seconds after Methos, geysering over them both.

Methos collapsed forward, almost burying Duncan's face in smooth slick skin, but Duncan couldn't move, still vibrating like a plucked string, still lost in the haze of physical bliss. He wanted to talk to Methos, to see his face and judge what damage he had done or undone, but exhaustion and warmth and bed sucked him deep into sleep.

He dreamed. He was in Japan, desperately wanting to study under a famous Kendo sensei: one who only accepted the most talented students. He approached the dojo, confident that he would be chosen, that he would be one of the favored. He entered with a stream of other prospective students and waited at the edge of the tatami mat, as protocol dictated, for the sensei to acknowledge him and invite him to join the class. The sensei was Connor MacLeod, and one by one he invited the new students, bowing, onto the mat and trained them. Hours passed, and days, and Connor never recognized him. He was forced to leave in disgrace, miserable. And then he woke up.

He rolled to his elbows and propped himself up. The room was dark and he was alone in the bed. Methos' clothes were gone. Even with the missing immortal aura, Duncan searched, knowing he wouldn't find him. At least, he told himself, it proved they could part. He wondered if they had had to fuck first.

Dejected, he looked out the window at the night. *It's always darkest before the dawn.* The words entered Duncan's mind, and he puzzled over the inaccuracy of the phrase. Actually, it was always darkest at any time both the sun and moon were down, if the stars were hidden by high clouds. Not like this chilly, glorious display of light. Still, dawn was not far off, he knew. It was time he got back.

The End


End file.
